The Terrorizers

by Donald Hamilton

“Eric here.” I found myself using the code name he’d mentioned at the start of our previous phone conversation.

  “I hope you’re happy in your retirement, Eric.”

  Well, at least I wouldn’t have to break that news myself. I said sourly, “Quick-dial Ross, the fastest phone in the West. Incidentally, he’s got a tail on me for protection until I get out of here, but I don’t suppose the guy’s above picking up any information that comes his way. However, this pay phone ought to be safe, if it matters. Did you actually tell Ross, earlier, to ship me back to Washington if he didn’t want me here? He says you did.”

  “His statement is correct.”

  I said without expression, “I thought this was supposed to be an international operation. How come you’re letting those crummy Canucks shove us around like that, sir?” When he didn’t speak, I went on: “Or could it be that you’re just as happy to have me booted out of here because, although I got drafted for some extra bodyguard duty because I was handy, my real mission here is actually finished?”

  The phone was silent for several seconds longer. At last the calm voice three thousand miles away said, “Perhaps. But we have no confirmation, have we?”

  “You mean that Walter Christofferson, alias Herbert Walters, may come strolling out of the bush any day with his parachute on his shoulder?”

  Mac said softly, “Amnesia, Eric?”

  I said, “I’ve lost my memory, sir. I haven’t lost my cottonpicking mind. The fact that you’re willing to have me come home now, I figure, indicates that I’ve actually accomplished more or less what I was sent up here to do. Well, what have I accomplished here besides a cracked head? It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? My only other accomplishment of record, at least up to last night when I kind of shook things loose out at Inanook with Kitty’s help, is that I took a certain bush pilot with a very peculiar background out into the boondocks and lost him, whether temporarily or permanently remains to be seen.” I paused. When no response came through the telephone, I said, “And the motive behind the removal, sir, at least initially, had nothing whatever to do with terrorism or the PPP.”

  That got a reaction. “I’d like to hear the reasoning that led you to this conclusion.”

  I said, “Well, you told me last night that the agent with whom I was originally working, Sally Wong, took orders from elsewhere, and I got a distinct impression you didn’t mean Mr. Ross and his Canadian associates. And then, of course, there was that very elaborate photographic cover I’d been given.”

  Mac said quickly, “There was nothing wrong with your cover until I decided to break it for strategic reasons. Nothing at all.”

  I’d touched his professional pride. I grinned at the wall of the phone cubicle. It was nice to catch him acting slightly human for a change.

  “Absolutely nothing,” I agreed. “My cover was airtight, watertight, bulletproof, and non-magnetic. It was totally impermeable and impenetrable. That’s just the point.” Well, a couple of doctors had seen through it, at least part way, but I decided not to mention that.

  “Please explain,” Mac said.

  “It was too damned good, sir,” I said. “It was much better than it had to be. You’d made absolutely certain I wouldn’t be revealed as a government agent no matter what happened. You’d even reprogrammed the official computers to spit out Madden data in response to Helm stimuli. All this for the benefit of a bunch of dynamite-freaks who probably wouldn’t know how to get any information out of Washington that wasn’t in the phone book? It didn’t make sense, sir. It was overkill in spades.”

  “What conclusion did you draw?”

  I said, “The only possible answer, sir, was that you or someone from whom you were getting your instructions had a project going we were all a bit ashamed of. Ironclad precautions were being taken to make certain there’d be no kickback under any conceivable or inconceivable circumstances. Well, what could we possibly do to a gang of murdering bomb-maniacs that we’d have to be ashamed of if the story got out? I mean, short of gratuitous torture and mutilation? I understand the Israelis practically went to war to deal with one bunch, and most of the uninvolved world just cheered. If that had been my original mission here, to get very tough with the PPP, my fancy background would have been a complete waste of time. As long as the bombings get stopped, the general public won’t give a damn what methods are used.”

  Mac said carefully, “As you say, memory apart, there seems to be nothing much wrong with your cottonpicking mind. Go on.”

  “Terrorists scare people,” I said. “For terrorism, they’re willing to make exceptions. They’ll condone official acts they’d never sanction if perpetrated in the line of ordinary intelligence-gathering or law-enforcement operations, these post-Watergate days. But suppose they learned that a certain law-enforcement branch of the U.S. government had borrowed a trained weapons specialist from an agency more closely related to intelligence to brutally remove in cold blood an individual who was simply frustrating their efforts to get the legal goods on said individual’s boss… You did say Brassaro was in the import business, meaning drugs, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “What happened?” I asked. “Did somebody jump to conclusions when Emilio sent his top soldier out here to play bush pilot? Did they figure that, not satisfied with his usual Caribbean delivery routes, he was setting up a new, roundabout pipeline by way of the Pacific Coast and Canada? And did they then decide that the best way of putting a stop to the new project was to put a stop to Christofferson himself, which had the added advantage of getting the guy out of the way for good? And if so, what the hell are we doing, running homicidal errands for a bunch of pot-cops? Is that our regular line of work, sir?”

  “Not pot, Eric,” Mac said mildly. “The syndicate, to use the popular name, has never been greatly interested in marijuana; the amateur competition is too great and the product is too bulky.” He paused as if for comment, but I let the silence ride. He went on: “Where drugs are concerned, some people seem to lose all perspective. One cannot argue with these crusaders against chemical evil; and there is nothing more dangerous than a frustrated crusader. They had been getting nowhere trying to build a case against Brassaro. Any time an investigator or informer would seem to promise real evidence, he would either disappear, or be found dead, or he would decide that he’d been mistaken and had no useful information after all. But then Christofferson was sent west, and they started making some progress. The protective organization did not function nearly so well without him; obviously he was the key man. Add the threat of a flood of narcotics from a new direction… As you have guessed, they came to us.”

  I said sourly, “I don’t mean to be critical, sir, but I was kidding myself that this dirty-tricks outfit of ours—that’s what we are, isn’t it?—had something to do with the national security. I don’t feel too damned happy about getting concussion, almost dying of exposure, and losing my memory, just to make life easy for a bunch of narcs, even pretty little ones like Miss Wong—”

  I stopped. He was laughing. Although I couldn’t remember anything about him, I had a feeling this was not a common occurrence.

  “What’s so funny, sir?” I asked.

  “That is the second time I’ve heard that speech, Eric,” he said. “You used practically the same words when I first described the mission to you.”

  “What did you say to change my mind?”

  “I mentioned a code name. Norma.”

  “Who’s Norma?”

  “You have the tense wrong. Norma was one of our people. You knew her quite well. But of course this organization does not countenance personal vendettas, so when Norma died in South America because a triggerhappy drug buyer thought her mission there might conflict with his profits—the supplier had other interests that had brought him to our attention—we did nothing but enter the man’s name in a certain file, let’s call it the opportunity file. You understand, we do not normally indulge in retribution of any kind. If somebody is kil
led in the line of duty by a legitimate opponent, that is all in the day’s work. However, as a matter of self-preservation, we do try to discourage stray thugs from interfering with our people in a fatal way. We still do not go after them on our own initiative except in very flagrant cases, but if the opportunity should be offered to us we may, for instance, accept a mission we would otherwise have refused. That is why it’s called the opportunity file.”

  “Norma,” I said thoughtfully. “Nothing comes. How well did I know her?”

  “You worked with her on two different Mexican assignments,” Mac said. “You spent some leave with her down there after the last one. Her real name was Virginia Dominguez, if that helps.”

  I shook my head, and remembered he couldn’t see me, a continent away. “It doesn’t,” I said. I wanted to ask more questions about Virginia Dominguez alias Norma. It seemed inconsiderate of me not to remember her, particularly since she was dead. However, other matters had priority. “What you’re saying is that Christofferson killed Norma to clear the way for one of his narcotics runs for Brassaro. That’s why we agreed to help Sally Wong’s people by taking him out. To let the syndicate boys know that when they see our people using the sidewalk it’s real smart of them to step off into the gutter where they belong, right?”

  “Or, as I said on another occasion, Eric, they have to learn not to monkey with the buzzsaw when it’s busy cutting wood.”

  “Sure. But after all that soul-searching, we eventually learned that Christofferson, or Walters, wasn’t out here for narcotics purposes after all. Wong spotted him with the wicked widow, Joan Market, thus tying him to the terrorist PPP. In the meantime I’d been ordered to transfer my romantic attentions from one girl to another; but finally, I suppose, I got the green light on Walters—somebody figured we knew all we needed about the guy and it was time for him to go. Kitty was back in the East on business and I could take care of Walters before she got back. Only he was a little better than we’d expected or I was a little worse. I wound up in a hospital. However, he still hasn’t shown, so maybe I managed to muddle through to a measure of success, anyway.” I hesitated. “Under the circumstances, this is mere curiosity, but did you manage to dig up anything on the names I gave you? Gavin Lewis, I’ve already heard about; Ross told me about finding him dead. What about Ovid?”

  I’d thought he might get stuffy about discussing such information with an agent who’d declared his intention of resigning, but he answered readily enough: “John Ovid we have traced. He is an expert who has been lent to Emilio Brassaro by a St. Louis business associate named Renfeld, Otto Renfeld. Your little round man is named Heinrich Glock, known as Heinie the Clock, perhaps for his regular and reliable ways with firearms.” Mac hesitated. “Incidentally, Mr. Ross reports that all the security guards at the Inanook Sanitarium seem to have gone underground. He tried to round them up for questioning but not a single one, regular or substitute, could be found.”

  I said, “My error, sir. The one who escaped, Frechette, must have given the scramble signal the minute he found a phone. What about Mrs. Market? Any signs of her?”

  “None whatever. She seems to be a very elusive lady. And I should tell you that Dr. Albert Caine is also missing. He eluded surveillance only a few hours ago, however, so it may not be part of the general exodus.”

  “I didn’t gather there was a great deal of trust going between him and the PPP,” I said. “It seems unlikely that he’d go to them for shelter, or that they’d give it to him if he did. Most likely he’s just bailed out to save his own skin. Do we have any idea where the rest are likely to have holed up?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How many guards are we talking about, anyway? I could never get a clear picture in that place. They came and went.”

  “The total roster is about fifteen. We’re not certain about the current status of some of the listed substitutes.”

  I said, “That’s a nice little strong-arm squad if somebody wants to use it. Ross said they’d been practicing guerilla tactics on the back lot. He also said he’d found some firearms, but he didn’t say how many they’d got away with, or what kind.” I grimaced. “Talking about firearms, what weapons does Ovid have such regular and reliable ways with? Does he pop them over the horizon or does he blast them face to face?”

  Mac spoke evenly, “For a man about to go into civilian life, you ask a lot of questions, Eric.”

  He was perfectly right, of course. I was finding myself oddly reluctant to bring the conversation to an end. After all, if my understanding was correct, I had worked for this man and his agency for a good many years, maybe most of my adult life.

  Before I could speak, Mac went on: “Glock is said to be fairly versatile. He had sniper training in the armed forces. For close range he prefers a twelve-gauge shotgun. Number One buckshot when he can get it; and apparently it is available up there or he brought his own. That chauffeur, Lewis, had his head blown off by such a load.”

  I said, “With a buckshot specialist who can also handle a sniper’s rifle prowling the local mists with a tough gang of armed mercenaries, I’d say it’s a hell of a good time for me to pull out, wouldn’t you, sir? He might run out of limousine drivers and come after me.”

  Mac disregarded this. He said, “Let me titillate your active curiosity with another piece of information. We recently received a very interesting report concerning the explosive devices employed by the PPP or, rather, the means used to detonate them.”

  I frowned at a pretty girl with an armload of packages heading for the department store doors.

  “Interesting?” I said. Mac waited, obviously testing me a little, which gave me the cue. I said, “I don’t think I’m very interested in whether they used an hour glass, or an alarm clock, or some fancy gizmo involving the speed with which a certain acid eats through a certain metal. Should I be, sir? What I mean is, the only thing that would really interest me, in connection with detonators, would be learning that they didn’t use a timer at all. Now that I’d find fascinating.”

  Mac said softly, “Very good, Eric.”

  I frowned. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. A remote-control device?”

  “So we’re told. You see the implications, of course.”

  I said, “I see that these threepee characters must be even nuttier than I thought. Instead of using a tick-tock detonator that lets them get well clear after planting the boom-stuff, they’ve got a radio contraption that necessitates their remaining within firing distance, whatever it may be, waiting to push a little red button. Screwy!” I started to ask another question, but stopped and said suspiciously, “For a man about to accept my resignation, you’re handing out a lot of very confidential dope, sir. At least I don’t suppose this has been announced in the press.”

  There was a little pause. At last Mac said, “Nobody resigns from this agency, Eric, in the strict sense of the word. Apparently that is among the things you have forgotten.”

  I said, “I see.” It seemed like a safe thing to say, even though it wasn’t exactly true.

  He let me wait another few seconds, then he said: “However, you may request inactive status if you like. I’d rather you didn’t; that is why I’ve answered all your questions and added a few additional facts I thought you might find professionally intriguing.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Why would you rather I didn’t request inactive status, sir? I goofed, didn’t I? Walters almost got me. For all we know, he may even have managed to get away. And now I’ve managed to get myself declared persona non grata by a friendly neighboring country. Seems like you’d be happy to retire a guy with a record like that.” He didn’t say anything. I watched the wet people coming in out of the rain, shaking themselves off; and the dry people heading out into the rain, buttoning themselves up. Mac was still waiting. I said, “Okay, it’s a girl, sir.”

  “I see. Ross didn’t mention that. Miss Davidson?”

  “Yes. She doesn�
�t make it a condition, but she’d prefer it. Her preferences are… fairly important to me, sir. Particularly since I’m not a bit sure I wouldn’t prefer it, too.”

  “Without memory, you can’t be certain what you prefer, can you, Eric?” When I didn’t answer, he went on, “It doesn’t have to be field duty. Not that I have any doubts on that score; we may not know how you managed with Walters, if you did, but we do know that your performance at Inanook was quite satisfactory regardless of what Mr. Ross may say. However, if the lady would rather have you spending more time at home, and if she has no objection to residing in Washington…” He hesitated, and went on: “This is no longer an easy agency for one man to supervise. I have been looking for someone to share the responsibility. Preferably a man who has been with us a very long time. Like you.”

  It was startling; it was flattering; but it was also a bit embarrassing. Here was a man whom I wouldn’t recognize on the street, who’d apparently thought enough of me before my plane crash to plan on making me his second in command whenever I decided to retire from field work—it seemed unlikely that the idea had come to him on the spur of the moment. In spite of my current medical problems, he was ready to go through with the plan. There was even a hint that he’d be grooming me as his successor…

  “You put me on kind of a spot, sir,” I said.

  “I hope so.” After a little, he said, “You may want to consult the lady.”

  “No. I know what she’d say. She’s had enough of the exciting life of the undercover operative. She wants out. For both of us.”

  “And you, Eric?”

  I was grateful for my loss of memory. Under other circumstances, I might have felt that I was betraying a friendship, or at least a working association, of long standing. Even without remembrance, it wasn’t a comfortable moment—but I concentrated on a mental picture of a slim girl in jeans and a gingham shirt singing to herself as she set the breakfast table.

  “I want out, too.”

  “Very well, Eric.” His voice was expressionless. “Let me just remind you that the decision is not, at this end, irreversible. Meanwhile, your request for inactive status will be approved if you choose to make it.”