"As for the Trondheim contact tomorrow," he said, "take care of it if you can, but don't risk anything for it. It's the stuff on Frigg and Ekofisk, but we're not too interested in Frigg at the moment. It's a gas field, and we probably won't be set up to handle gas for quite a while, if ever. Anyway, it's shared between the Norwegians and the British, being right on the boundary line between their respective areas, so it offers political complications. Ekofisk also presents problems. For one thing, there's a deep ocean trench between the wells and the Norwegian coast, so the oil is going to have to be pumped the other way, west or south, which makes it tougher to get at. Also, Ekofisk is being handled by a whole mess of companies working together: Phillips, Aloco, and a bunch of others. That makes finagling kind of difficult, if you know what I mean. So if the Trondheim drop starts looking too risky, forget it. We'd certainly like to have that southern information on file, for future reference, but at the moment it's not essential. Largely, it's a diversionary tactic. We have people picking up information around the British operations, too, even though we see no way of using it right now. That way, even if some rumors get around, nobody'll know just where to look for trouble. But the place we've really got our eye on, at least for a start, is Torbotten."
I glanced at the big chart on the table. "It looks kind of chilly for well-drilling, way up there," I said. "Or for anything else."
"The Gulf Stream off shore keeps that coast from getting too damned cold," Priest said. "Not that you can't freeze your ass off, I did plenty of times, but you don't have a lot of heavy ice to contend with. Actually, Torbotten is ideal for our purposes—well, it depends kind of on what Johann has turned up, but up to now it looks very good. It's not too far out in deep water, it's all Norwegian, and best of all it's being developed by a single outfit called Petrolene, Incorporated—a name that may sound faintly familiar to you—controlled by a gentleman with the high moral principles of a wolverine. Of course, the operation is being conducted under strict government supervision and the Norwegians are being very tough—the contracts they've been insisting on lately are truly heartbreaking, I'm told. Oslo runs none of the risks and gets all the money, said my informant with tears in his eyes."
"Your informant wouldn't have the same initials as the city of Los Angeles, by any chance?"
"Don't be naive, Mr. Helm." Priest's voice was dry. "Nobody deals with Lincoln Alexander Kotko face to face. He has very efficient negotiators to talk for him, while he sits in his Swiss chalet or his French chateau admiring the view and getting a nice tan on his shaved head—I understand he has the theory that women find bald men irresistible. So far, I gather, the evidence is all in his favor. Of course, his money may have something to do with his amorous successes, but I don't suppose anybody dares suggest that to Mr. Kotko. Well, the hairless sonofabitch is going to have to come out of hiding if he wants what I've got to offer. I'm not risking men's lives for it, and women's too, just to turn it over to some errand boy like Denison." He threw back his head and finished the latest beer in a single draft like a Viking polishing off a horn of mead. "Now you'd better shove off, son. If there's anything I've left out, Diana can probably fill it in for you. I'll be keeping out of sight—north of here, somebody might recognize me who shouldn't—but I'll be in touch later, or some of my people up there will."
"How will I know them?"
He frowned. "It's been a long time since I played this secret agent game. ... If you speak some Swedish, you've got a pretty good notion of how Norwegian's supposed to sound. If they can pronounce p0lse correctly, they're mine. If they say pelsay, or poalsee, shoot them. Okay? Give my regards to the girl. Here are the things I brought along for her. How are you kids getting along?"
It was part of the act. I wasn't all that young, and he wasn't all that old, but he'd always favored the elder statesman role. I told him Diana and I were getting along fine. After all, that wasn't too far from the truth. It was a hell of a lot closer, I figured, than some of the information that had been presented at the conference now being adjourned. ...
X.
THE unseen captain up on the bridge had a method for getting his ship away from the dock that was just as simple as the system he'd used for bringing her in. He merely cast off all the docklines except the same workhorse wire cable; and then he put the old bucket into gear, or whatever you do to get action on a vessel that large. Maybe he also put the rudder over—my rudimentary seamanship said it would be a logical move—but I couldn't check that from where I stood. Anyway, the ship moved ahead slowly until the cable came taut. With the bow held, and the propeller still turning, the stem swung outwards gradually. When it was aimed at the open harbor, he gave her reverse. The cable went slack, a dockhand threw it off the cleat on the pier, a couple of deckhands hauled it aboard the ship, and we were clear.
Standing at the rail beside Diana, I watched the colorful, sunny little town recede as, moving forward once more, the vessel headed for the open fjord beyond the reefs and breakwaters.
"I didn't see the Skipper. I guess he must be serious about starting to keep out of sight," Diana said. I'd given
her a condensed and censored report of the morning's events while watching her eat a hearty lunch in the ship's dining room. I mean, the Denison angle wasn't really any of her business that I could see.
I said, "Washington may have authorized this very illicit operation, in a panicky moment but if anything should go wrong they'd undoubtedly prefer not to have the gent in charge recognized as a U.S. naval officer, even a retired one. Apparently, there are quite a few folks along this coast, particularly farther north, who remember him from World War II."
"Yes, I gather he's kind oi a hero to these people," Diana said. She hesitated and glanced at me a bit uncertainly. "But even so, I've been wondering. . . . Doesn't it seem a little strange to you. Matt, that he'd be able to persuade them to help him as they seem to be doing, considering what his objective is?"
I grinned. "Sweetheart, join the club. You have just restored my faith in the intelligence of the so-called weaker sex. Strange is hardly the word for it. I think we can safely assume, on the basis of the evidence to date, that whatever Captain Priest is up to around here, it isn't what he says he's up to, no matter how often and elaborately he says it, complete with maps and statistics."
She frowned at me in a worried way. "But . . . but what are we going to do?"
I sighed sadly. "First the girl lifts me up, way up; then she casts me down, way down."
"What do you mean?"
I said, "Did you throw off all your ladylike inhibitions, all your lovely concerned morality, just to come over here and lead the Skipper into paths of righteousness and veracity? That isn't the way you were telling it a few hours back."
"But—"
"I thought you were rebelling against your dull, safe, worthy, and scrupulously honest life. I thought you were through with saving the blackfooted ferret, and similar displays of social consciousness."
She laughed quickly and stopped laughing. "You mean, we should go right on working for him even if even if we suspect he isn't telling us the truth?"
"We know damned well he isn't telling us the truth," I said. "As a matter of fact, he came right out and said so. So what? My orders make no reference to the truth. And whatever Captain Priest is up to, it can't be a hell of a lot wickeder or more illegal than what he's going around saying he's up to—like robbing these poor Scandinavians of their offshore oil. If we're capable of accepting that, and we damn' well did, the chances are we won't be too damned shocked at the truth when he finally dispenses with the security razzle-dazzle, as he calls it, and lets us in on the secret. My chief says he's an ingenious and effective operator, and my chief doesn't toss words like that around lightly. Okay, let the old pirate proceed with his ingenious and effective operation, whatever it may be, and to hell with him. Our job is to pick up his mail up north, not to pass judgment on his manners or his morals. . . . Oh, oh. Look who we've got here, just as pretty
as two pipes in a shooting gallery."
The Elfenbeins, pere et fille, if you'll pardon my lousy French, had come out on deck to admire the passing view. They were a little late to see the coastline at its best, since the clouds were pulling together again, cutting off the sparkling sunshine of a few minutes earlier. I glanced at my companion.
"I'll see you in your cabin in just about five minutes," I said. "Stop by my place on your way. There's a first aid kit in my suitcase; take it. Five minutes. Don't be surprised if there's company with me."
Diana hesitated and glanced at the June-and-September couple by the rail. Her eyes showed quick excitement "Can't I help here?"
"You're too damned bloodthirsty," I said. "You'd shoot them just to hear them go thump on the deck. Go on, beat it."
As far as the basic survival skills are concerned, the worst thing that can happen to a man in our general line of work—and you could say that Dr. Adolf Elfenbein was, at least, in a closely related business—is for him to gain success and authority. He forgets what it was like down in the jungle out of which he climbed. He starts to feel invulnerable; kind of sacred and untouchable. He knows that down in the lower echelons people still fight and die, but the blood can't spatter him and the bullets can't reach him any longer, up on the serene, safe eminence to which he has attained. At least he gets to thinking they can't.
Elfenbein looked up questioningly as I stopped in front of him. I said, very politely, "My name is Matthew Helm, sir. I think it's time we talked, don't you?"
His blue eyes looked a little surprised, his pink preacher-face a little disconcerted, before he got his expression under control.
"You're the man who murdered Bj0rn," he said coldly. "He was not a very valuable man, just local Norwegian help hired for the occasion, nevertheless I can't see that it leaves us anything constructive to say to each other."
I said, "Well, if we're adding up old scores, sir, you're the man who sent Bj0rn to murder Mrs. Barth. And I'm the man who doesn't like people trying to kill people under my protection. And I'm the man who, therefore, has just informed your pretty boy Erlan Torstensen, also involved in the attempt, that he'd better run along and make himself invisible before I squash him like a cockroach."
The girl stirred. "Oh, then that's why. . . . Erlan sent us an incoherent message we couldn't understand."
"That's why," I said, reminding myself not to forget that to the best of my knowledge there was no ship-to-shore phone service. If they'd received a message here on board, somebody must have brought it aboard; and nobody'd said a thing about his leaving, whoever he might be. Of course, the girl hadn't said they'd got the message on the ship—they might have attended a rendezvous on shore while I wasn't around—but it was the only safe assumption to make. I said, "My information is that handsome Erlan hopped into his sports car and drove like hell out of that little town back there. I must have made a big impression on him. ... And now that we've got the cheap Norwegian help out of the way, sir," I went on, addressing myself to the parent once more, "I suggest we shake hands like civilized human beings and talk this thing over before more people get killed. How about it, sir?" I held out my hand.
Although the reference to civilized human beings didn't do any harm—the crookeder they are, the more civilized they like to think themselves—I'm sure it was the sirs that really did the job. Kids nowadays won't say sir or ma'am to their elders; they consider it demeaning, or something. They don't know what a useful tool they're, passing up. When a guy damn' near six and a half feet tall, a guy considered dangerous in some quarters, approaches you deferentially and calls you sir, why, it makes you feel very important, particularly if you already have a tendency towards feeling very important. I could see the little white-haired gent in front of me kind of swelling slightly, proudly, pigeon-like, as he condescended to take my hand. ...
The girl was smarter. Her eyes narrowed abruptly and she started to cry a warning, but she was too late. Before she'd got it out, I'd yanked Dr. Elfenbein close and slammed a knee into him hard. My left hand pulled his face against my shoulder to stifle the moaning gasp he let out. He was short enough to make this practical. I held him there by the back of the neck so he wouldn't attract attention by slipping to the deck. There were still a few passengers out here, although most had gone inside after we emerged from the harbor. I took out the gun and pointed it at the girl, turning slightly so it was hidden by my body from the rest of the ship.
"Your daddy seems to have been taken suddenly ill, Miss," I said. "We'd better be careful it doesn't prove fatal, hadn't we?"
Her eyes were wide and shocked. "You . . . you must be mad! You can't—"
"Get away with it?" I said cheerfully. "Why, you're perfectly right, Miss Elfenbein. Of course I can't get away with it. That's strictly impossible, ma'am. I mean, where will I go, afterwards, on this little ship? They'll catch me, sure. They'll try me and electrocute me, or whatever they do in Norway. Of course, it'll take months. Meanwhile—"
I put the muzzle of the borrowed automatic against the body of the man I held. "—meanwhile your father will have been long buried, thoroughly perforated with nasty little 9mm bullets. If you think it's a fair exchange, just shout for help."
Greta Elfenbein started to speak, licked her lips, and remained silent.
I went on, raising my voice slightly, "You'd better take his other arm, ma'am. I'll help you get him below. The sudden way it hit him, I'm afraid it can't be just seasickness. Has he been having dizzy spells or trouble with his heart. . . ?"
The ship was now far enough out to feel the seas kicked up by the brisk tail wind helping us up the coast. She responded with a long, slow roll that made my job of half-carrying Elfenbein below less easy than it might have been; but the girl made no move to take advantage of my off-balance moments. Two decks down, Diana was ready for us. When I kicked at the stateroom door, it opened. She had my revolver in her hand.
"You first, Miss Elfenbein," I said. "Sit down on that berth to the left, please, with your hands in plain sight on your knees. No, a little farther over, if you don't mind, to make room for. . . . There you are. Doctor. Feeling better now?"
Elfenbein's face was pale and damp and his thin, white hair was disheveled, revealing that there was quite a good-sized, pink, bald patch on top, normally hidden by careful combing of what remained. He started to speak—maybe, like his daughter, he felt obliged to tell me I couldn't get away with it—but he checked himself. His eyes, however, were wicked in his mild face. I realized that he wasn't really a very nice man. Well, neither was I.
I gestured to Diana to sit down on the other berth, facing Greta. "She's your responsibility, Madeleine," I said, to remind her who she was supposed to be. "Just don't make any loud, fatal noises unless you have to."
"I understand, Matt."
I glanced her way. She had her elbows on her knees, and she was supporting the revolver with both hands the way I'd shown her. She seemed to have the situation under control. Greta Elfenbein looked pale and subdued, as if weapons and violence didn't agree with her. It could have been an act, but I remembered being told that the girl had been innocently studying music in Switzerland when her mother had died and she'd been brought home to her father.
She bothered me. I couldn't quite see where she fitted into a professional caper. The data on the female Elfenbein were contradictory. There was the fact to be kept in mind that the first time I'd met her she'd gone for a gun— but I reminded myself also that she hadn't got it. She'd been too conventionally concerned about her dignity and her nylons to make the headlong dive that would have done the job. All in all, she was a subject that could use a little more research, but this was hardly the time for it.
''What do you want. Helm?" That was Dr. Elfenbein. "What do you hope to achieve by this muscular melodrama?"
"Achieve," I said. "Nice word, achieve. I hope we're going to achieve some information and cooperation, Doctor. First, I'd like you to inform me exactly how you came to know enough
to be on this ship with your daughter and your hired Norwegian henchmen, prepared to take swift and drastic action, convinced that it would be worth your while to do so. And then I want you to cooperate by getting the hell off it. Off the ship, out of the caper, out of our hair."
The little man had stroked his thin, white locks into place. "You must be joking, sir," he said. "You can't really believe that I'll tell you everything you want to know, and then obediently disembark at the next port, simply because you tell me to."
"Suit yourself," I said. "But before you make up your mind for sure, why don't you ask your daughter to tell you just once more exactly what happened to Big Bj0m, the dangerous fellow you hired to toss helpless ladies into harbors?"
Elfenbein sighed. "So much melodrama! You are really threatening us with death if we do not leave this ship?"
I said deliberately, "It was a very simple job as far as I was concerned, Dr. Elfenbein. Just a quiet boat-ride up the coast with an attractive companion, an elementary escort job, with no real danger in sight—at least I'd been advised of none. Suddenly you barged in and tried to make World War III of it. Okay, if war's what you want, I'll give you war. One of your boys is already taking a codfish census thirty fathoms down, if I've got the depth right and they have cod around here. Another's on the run; he believed that I meant what I told him. It would be too bad if you were to lose your life, and cause me a lot of trouble, simply because you refused to understand what was said to you in plain English. Would you rather hear it in Swedish, sir? Or I can take a crack at German, although my pronunciation's lousy. I even know a few Spanish words if they'll help."
The little man smiled faintly. "The linguistic display will not be necessary. Let us say that I accept as a working hypothesis that you'll assassinate us if we don't leave this vessel. But there was some talk of information, and dead people do not communicate very well. Are we, then, to be tortured first, before we're killed?"
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