The Ambushers mh-6

by Donald Hamilton

  XX

  THERE WAS A SCUFFLING sound as Sheila crawled up beside me. She was silent for quite a long interval. When she spoke, the antagonism was completely gone from her voice, as if she'd realized at last that this was no time for personal grievances.

  "What is it?" she whispered.

  "You should know," I said. "You're the one who spotted it for us in the first place."

  "Oh," she said. "That thing. I just saw it come through the village on a trailer. I never saw it set up. But that was over a thousand miles south. How did they get it here?"

  "That," I said, "is a damn good question."

  I studied the scene below. The caverns across the way had been elaborated by ancient masons working with rocks and mud mortar until they formed a kind of apartment complex in the face of the canyon wall, reached by crude wooden ladders. Men were obviously living up there now, perhaps for the first time in centuries. Below the cave dwellings, out in the open, was a tent, a campfire, a few men, a couple of pickup trucks, and a blue Volkswagen sedan. There was no sign of a blonde woman in shorts, and at the moment I wasn't interested except to note that she'd made it. At least the car had.

  All the stuff in the clearing looked innocent enough for a scientific expedition. A plane flying over would spot nothing out of the ordinary. But there was the missile concealed among the trees upstream; and downstream, before the canyon narrowed again, in another bunch of cottonwoods, was a mass of vehicles disguised by matte camouflage paint. I could make out some vintage jeeps and six-by-six Army trucks, apparently old war-surplus stuff picked up somewhere at a bargain. Down there, also, was the chunky six-wheeled trailer that hauled and controlled the missile, with its antennas and oversized cab.

  It wasn't very impressive, aside from the bird. Say at most a couple of hundred armed men and enough vehicles to transport them as far as the beat-up equipment could be made to run. Say, up in the States, small welcoming committees of people like those we'd investigated in Tucson: a surly unemployed mechanic who liked his beer, a knife-packing young pachuco, the fading former mistress of a former Nazi butcher-boy. On the face of it, always discounting the bird, you could hardly call it a menacing display of power.

  But there was always the bird-and not only the bird but the fact that they'd got it here. There must have been a ship involved, a difficult embarkation and landing, and countless impossible miles at night over back roads and no roads at all, always under threat of discovery. Guile and bluff and incredible labor were represented by that missile standing in the cottonwoods. People who could accomplish that weren't to be dismissed easily.

  "In case they didn't tell you in Washington or you weren't in condition to listen closely," I said, "it's a misplaced Russian toy known as the Rudovic III. It has a nuclear warhead and a twelve-hundred-mile range. That gives it a choice, from here, of any big U.S. city from Los Angeles, California, to Houston, Texas. Maybe farther. My geography is a little sketchy. And controlling this pleasant gadget is our scar-faced ex-Nazi general, with his pocket-sized army and his dreams of greatness, past and future."

  "Did you know you were going to find it here?"

  "No," I admitted. "Costa Verde reported it missing, but we didn't know whether to believe the report or not. President Avila might have bid it out for his own use and lied about it. I confess I didn't think of the possibility that von Sachs could have grabbed it."

  "I suppose-" Sheila hesitated. "I suppose we have to do something about it."

  I grimaced. "Well, we could just pop Heinrich from up here and beat it, leaving Catherine to the wolves and the firecracker to whoever wants it. It's a real temptation, now that I look at the setup. I didn't know it was going to be this pretty, like a target range, when I agreed to join our blonde friend inside."

  Sheila said in a tentative voice, "Catherine would desert us in an instant if she saw anything to be gained by it."

  "I know," I said. "It's just that damn Roman candle that keeps me honest. I caught hell for leaving it once, way down in Central America. This close to the U.S. I've got no choice. I've got to put it out of commission somehow, before some irresponsible jerk down there goes and pushes the wrong button. Come on, let's move back a bit, and get the operation lined up."

  In the shade of a boulder well back from the rim I took a sparing drink from the canteen and slipped the rifle off. The leather sling hadn't done my burns any good, and I couldn't help remembering who'd given them to me. It wouldn't really have hurt my conscience greatly to leave Catherine down there in the hands of von Sachs. It was just as well, I guess, that I no longer had a choice.

  I pulled the bolt out of the gun, checked the barrel, shoved five shells into the magazine, loaded one into the chamber, and handed the weapon to Sheila along with two boxes of ammunition.

  "There you are, Skinny," I said. "You have forty rounds to play with. Well, you fired one back up the road. Thirty-nine."

  She said, "Eric-.-"

  I said, "The range is point-blank about two thirds of the way across the canyon, but you can't reach the tent or the campfire with hundred per cent accuracy so don't try. You know the man; you've studied the photographs. No matter what happens-I repeat, no matter what happens -don't fire a shot until you can take care of him with absolute certainty. That's your job. Once he's down and you're sure of him, you're on your own. But I'm counting on you to take out von Sachs the minute he wanders close enough. I'll steer him within range if I can. Or Catherine will. It depends on how things work out down there."

  "And how are you going to-"

  "Never mind me, for the moment. After you've made the touch, after von Sachs is taken care of, you can use the rest of the ammo as the spirit moves you. Cover us as well as you can, but don't hang around too long. Get out before you're cut off up here. If we make it clear, we'll be waiting for you below, where we cached the suitcases. With a car if we can manage."

  "And-" She paused. "And if you're not there?"

  "Don't wait around for us," I said. "You've got most of a gallon of water and enough nourishment to keep you going. Walk due east until you hit the Antelope Wells road, but don't try to get back up to the border, it's much too far. Turn south when you reach the road. There are some little Mexican towns farther down. Or somebody'll come along and give you a lift. Just make sure they're okay before you let them see you. It'll be a long, hot, dusty hike, it may take several days even, but you can make it if you go easy on the water."

  She gave a funny little laugh. "You're being awfully silly.

  Do you really think I'd go off without you. I'm not Catherine, you know."

  I said evenly, "The standing orders expressly forbid an agent's risking his life to rescue the captured, succor the wounded, or bury the dead, unless the success of the mission is involved. Here it won't be. We'll either get our work done in the first few minutes after the action starts, or we won't. You've got farther to go than we have, over rougher terrain. If we're not waiting at the cache by the time you reach it, we're just not coming, that's all. Being a heroine will get you nothing. Just keep on going." I rose and glanced at my watch. "Well, I'd better start back. I don't want to have to scramble down that cliff in the dark. This would be a hell of a time to break a leg."

  "Eric."

  "Yes?"

  Sheila leaned the gun against the boulder and rose to face me. "Be careful," she said, looking up. "Please be careful, darling. And if you say 'sure' again, the way you did the last time we separated, up the road, I'll slap your face."

  I looked down at her for a moment. Her short hair was tousled, her shirt and pants were dusty, and her small face was pink from the sun: she looked like a kid after an active summer picnic.

  I grinned at her. "Sure," I said. "I'll be careful, Skinny. Sure."

  She made a face and brought her hand up threateningly. I caught her by the wrist. It was a mistake, touching her. I'd been trying very hard to keep everything on a business basis, to think of her simply as one of the human resources with which I
had to accomplish a certain task. That I'd once found her helpless in the jungle, that I'd carried her, cared for her, and later stuck my neck out for her officially, and made love to her unofficially, was strictly beside the point down here. Or so I tried to tell myself, but suddenly I found myself holding her and kissing her possessively, which was a hell of a way for an agent to behave within sight of the target.

  "For God's sake!" I said at last, rather breathlessly.

  "What a hell of a time for necking. We'd better cut it out before I forget all about important things like homicide and sabotage."

  She held onto me as I tried to step back. "Would that be so bad?" She was smiling mischievously. "You wouldn't have to forget very long. Just a few minutes."

  "You're a shameless wench," I mid.

  "You told me that before."

  "I don't go for women in pants. They don't do a thing for me," I said firmly. At least I hoped it was firmly. "And I've got to get down that damn cliff before dark. I've got a date with a blonde."

  "I know." She grimaced. "You! Tearing a button off her blouse so you could admire her breasts. Who did you think you were fooling?"

  I said, "Oh, is that what was eating you?"

  "Yes, I'm jealous," she breathed. "She makes me feel plain and scrawny. I know it's stupid, but I can't help it. Eric."

  "Yes?"

  "You will be there, won't you? At the cache."

  "I'm sure as hell going to try," I said.

  "And afterward-"

  "It's considered bad luck to make plans for afterward, Skinny."

  "I know. Just so you're there. And just so you don't think-" She stopped, looking down.

  "Think what?"

  "That I'm just a silly little girl with a transference who's got to be humored because she's had a tough time. I'm in good health now, darling, my mind is perfectly clear, and I know what I want. What I want for us. You can be remembering that, down there with your predatory blonde. And-" She hesitated and looked up quickly. "And don't worry. I know what you've been thinking about me. Some day I'll tell you what really happened in Costa Verde. But it's all right now. I'm all right. Just get von Sachs within two hundred yards of me and I'll do the job so you'll have no complaints. You'll see."

  XXI

  EVERYTHING WENT ACCORDING to plan. They'd been warned by Catherine that I'd be along, they were waiting, and they caught me with the goods as they were supposed to. I had a sketch of the canyon showing the positions of the missile and control truck that wasn't half bad for the poor light in which I'd had to work. I had a list of the camouflaged vehicles parked under the trees, and an estimate of the number of men in the caves, and notes on everything else a bright intelligence type might want to bring home to his superiors to show he was on the ball. I was sorry I hadn't brought a camera and flashgun, but perhaps that would have been overdoing it.

  They let me finish and closed in on me as I was trying to sneak away down the canyon. Making a run for it, I tripped and knocked my wind out, so it was easy for them- and for me, too; easier than taking a chance on a lot of excitable Latin marksmen in the dark. They might accidentally have hit me. Even worse, they might have missed me and let me get away.

  They pushed me around a bit and got my notebook and the.38 revolver I'd worn for them to find. That made them happy. They'd captured a dangerous man, the man they'd been told to watch for. They marched me triumphantly back up the canyon past the vehicle park and across the little creek, a trickle now, that could be a torrent at times judging by the width of the wash and the height of the bank it had cut in places. I didn't look up at the cliff to the north. It had long since become too dark for accurate shooting, but Sheila was probably watching nevertheless. Out here in the open, I could see my half-dozen captors more clearly. They weren't the innocent-looking, dumb-looking, lazy-looking laborers who'd been loafing around the fire for show-and still were.

  They were tough, dark-faced men like Jiminez' bunch in Costa Verde. Don't think I underestimated them because they'd fallen for my super-spy act. These were men, as Mexican history showed, who could march and fight forever on a handful of beans and a little chili.

  They carried a variety of firearms, ranging from old Springfields and M-l's to the latest in machine pistols, one specimen, belonging to the sergeant in charge of the patrol, a small, wiry character. They were not strictly speaking in uniform; but each man had a swastika armband and a machete, although this wasn't country where a brush-knife was essential. I noticed that all the machetes were the same pattern, a little more elaborate than the usual crude, heavy blade with a couple of pieces of wood riveted on for a handle. A rudimentary brass guard had been added, like that of a saber, curving around to protect the fingers, making a fighting weapon of a wood-chopping tool.

  Well, the Nazis had always believed in the psychological value of special cutlery, generally some kind of a sneaky dirk that wasn't much good for real fighting but was a hell of a fine weapon for stabbing a man in the back. Symbolically, you might say, the honest machete was a step upward, although one might be hard put to find a use for it in atomic warfare.

  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 with
out 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."