The Terrorizers

by Donald Hamilton

  22

  To build the cabin they’d fastened beat-up six-by-sixes, that had once been used for something else, to the barge’s rusty steel decking and worked up from there. It was not a nautical structure but strictly a do-it-yourself project as Sally had said. Real ship’s carpentry is different, carefully fitted, solidly assembled with wood screws and bolts. This was just a floating shack put together from secondhand lumber by people who didn’t know how to drive nails straight and didn’t care. There were mismatched window frames and illfitting doors.

  From the galley we were taken into what I’d thought to be a large communal bedroom because I’d glimpsed a couple of untidy cots through the open door. I’d thought wrong. It turned out to be a mess hall of sorts, with a homemade table—just boards on trestles—and an assortment of crippled chairs. A wood stove in the far corner threw out a considerable amount of heat that felt very good after the chill of our recent prison. The place was littered with dirty clothes and other debris. The cots I’d seen had apparently just been stuck back in the corner to handle the overflow from the real bunkroom beyond, visible through the door at the end of the room. It seemed to be a smaller chamber with doubledeckers along the wall. I couldn’t determine how they solved the bathroom problem. Certain stale odors hinted that whatever the solution was, it wasn’t perfect.

  But there were only two details of the construction and layout that really concerned me. The fact that the shanty was made of wood, instead of mild shipbuilding steel like the barge itself, meant that it wouldn’t begin to stop bullets, not even bullets from the fairly feeble pistol ammo I figured was used in the local variety of automatic firearms. At least it was a good bet that the caliber was 9mm Parabellum—Luger to you—since most of them, at least those of non-communist origin, take that cartridge these days and the hole in the business end of Provost’s weapon looked about right. The flimsy siding couldn’t even be counted on to stop buckshot, although those little round lead balls don’t penetrate much. Our escape strategy would have to allow for this. It wouldn’t be enough just to whip around a corner out of sight. Either chopper or shotgun could make any position untenable out there if the operator was willing to make a lot of noise and rip up the shack a bit.

  On the plus side of the ledger was the fact that the way we’d entered, through the galley, wasn’t the only way to get into the dining room, if you want to call it that—or out of it. There was another door leading directly out onto the barge’s seaward deck from the far end of the room. Of course, until we got a good close look at it, or until somebody used it, we couldn’t know if it was readily operable. It might be locked or simply nailed shut.

  I tried not to give it more than a casual look as Provost shepherded us down the shoreward side of the room past the long table, to the nearest cot. He told us to sit down and behave ourselves, or words to that effect. As he moved on by, cautiously, I was aware of Sally casting a quick glance across the room to measure the distance she’d have to go; by the time Provost had taken up station in the bunkroom doorway, she’d buried her face in my left shoulder, sniffling hopelessly. Ovid had remained at the door by which we’d come.

  A couple of small kids in ragged jeans and T-shirts, hair long, sex undeterminable, were playing some kind of game at the table. They didn’t seem particularly intrigued by the sight of prisoners and firearms. Joan Market, who’d followed us in, went over and told them to beat it, there was going to be a meeting of the council. They said aw-nuts-do-we-have-to and shuffled out through the door facing us, leaving it ajar. Okay. I heard Sally draw a long, controlled breath beside me and let it out again. Joan Market marched over and slammed the door shut; she had to kick it to make it latch. I heard the kids race by outside; making plenty of noise on the reverberating deck. Then the voice of the fat girl, Ruthie, called from the galley, and they charged in there and clattered down the ladder into the barge’s interior.

  Although there had been a reference to little monsters earlier, I’d been mildly shocked at the actual sight of children, but they were obviously an essential part of the camouflage. Take some grubby hippie families—or whatever the dropout term is nowadays—living together on a funny-looking shanty boat complete with grubby kids, and nobody’d bother to keep track of how many different men were seen coming and going, or women either. Everybody knows that the personnel of those sinful groups is forever changing in a most promiscuous way. Unless you were firmly dedicated to bringing soap, haircuts, and morals to everybody, or taking drugs away from them, you’d pay very little attention to this raggedy backwoods commune once it became clear that the members minded their own business and didn’t bother anybody or steal anything. Sooner or later questions might be asked about sanitation or education, but with care the hideout could probably operate unsuspected for a considerable time.

  I didn’t think it would operate much longer, whatever happened. It had obviously been the secret headquarters from which instructions had been sent to the more conspicuous installation at Inanook; but they could hardly expect to remain safe here now that they were organizing terrorist incidents in their own back yard. The Tsawwassen ferry explosion had been bad enough from a security standpoint; another blast here in the Vancouver area would raise a local manhunt that would overlook nothing, certainly not an unconventional setup like this. They must have plans for getting out fast and setting up shop elsewhere…

  “That bomb,” Sally breathed between muffled sobs. “The one that woman just planted. It can’t be too far away. Somewhere in the city, probably. We’ve got to find out where and when. We’ve got to stop it.”

  “Not we,” I whispered. “Your job is to get clear and bring the cavalry here. Concentrate, Wong. Don’t get distracted by a little bit of dynamite, or nitro, or TNT. Straight out that door and over the side the instant you see a break. Remember, the first couple of steps are what will count when that table is full of people. Once you’re behind them, they’ll shield you from Ovid, and even Provost can’t cut loose without mowing down half of them, not until you’re past him and grabbing for the doorknob. I’ll try to keep him out of action long enough…” I shoved her away irritably. “For Christ’s sake stop sniffling on me, you’re driving me nuts!”

  Mrs. Market paced by without a glance at us, her long denim skirt swinging, frayed around the bottom to a whitish fringe. I wondered idly how a hem had got to be considered a reactionary political institution, to be rejected by all liberated spirits. It’s always seemed to me a very sensible way of finishing off a garment, which undoubtedly betrays my basic fascistic tendencies. I couldn’t help noting that, hemmed or frayed, light or heavy, the lady had a smooth, springy, predatory way of moving, like a large, caged cat. She paused at the galley door where Ovid played sentry. He stepped aside, thinking she meant to pass, but she turned abruptly and squeezed past the chair at the head of the rustic table to the window there. She stood looking out at the brown river, drumming her fingers nervously against the rain-streaked glass.

  Okay. Recheck. Exit door straight ahead across the room. Provost in the bunkroom doorway close and to the left—maybe there was another escape route through there he wanted to block. Ovid in the galley doorway at the other end of the room, far and to the right. As long as we remained still they had us in a safe crossfire without a worry about shooting the people at the table or each other. However, if we moved, assuming we could move fast enough or one of us could…

  Ovid stepped aside once more and Ruthie came in and said something to Joan Market. The taller woman, still watching the sullen river, waved her away with a sharp don’t-bother-me gesture. Ruthie sat down on the far side of the table, placidly undisturbed; apparently rejection was her normal lot in life and she expected nothing else. Soon the rest of them were filing in, another woman in a long, oldfashioned dress, followed by three men. The woman was young, with a pinched small face and a lot of dark, stringy hair, kept under some kind of control by a red band around her head. Then came little Manny, whom we’d already met,
complete with chopper, followed by a husky young black man with a moderate Afro and dirty military-type coveralls. They split up. Manny and Redband took our side of the table. Coveralls went around to sit beside Ruthie, who gave him a shy little smile of greeting that made her face look quite pretty for a brief instant.

  He’d obviously waited to make his entrance, General Jacques Frechette of the People’s Protest Party, sometimes referred to as Jake. I’d made the connection by this time, of course. Watching him march in, I remembered that the last time I’d seen him he’d been wearing a scared look and an Inanook security-guard uniform with an empty holster. I remembered that he’d been very, very slow reaching for the revolver that had been in the holster. Perhaps for this reason, he was now carrying a submachinegun, which he laid at the head of the table ceremoniously, as if it were a symbol of office like a gavel.

  Today he was wearing clean blue jeans and a short, matching denim jacket. On his lean frame, the outfit had a sharp, almost military, look; you half-expected to see a display of campaign ribbons over the pocket of the jacket. His old-frontiersman face was as picturesque as ever, with its drooping moustache and fierce eyebrows. His pale blue eyes swept the room in a commanding manner until they reached me. I saw him, momentarily disconcerted, remember how I’d disarmed and bullied him in Elsie Somerset’s office. After a moment he showed me a look of malicious triumph: it was his turn now. He pulled back his chair, and paused, and glanced at the woman still standing by the window.

  “If Mrs. Market is quite ready, we can call the meeting to order,” he said briskly, and sat down without waiting for her, and went on. “You’ll be glad to hear that the traitor Davidson—traitress, rather—has paid with her life for her treachery and deceit, setting an example I hope will be taken to heart by others who entertain foolish notions of joining our ranks under false pretenses.” He stopped as Joan Market seated herself beside him, waited pointedly until she was still, and then continued: “I’m also happy to report that a well-executed raid by the People’s Army of Liberation has netted two prisoners involved in the same establishment plot to penetrate our organization. We are faced with the problem of determining punishment suitable for this crime against the people. Speaking for myself, I’ll state that I feel the male prisoner deserves no consideration from us. He comes with bloody hands to this room, and the blood is that of our comrades.”

  There was a little murmur of anger, as Frechette paused dramatically. I remembered that he’d had a phony-Frenchy accent at Inanook. Apparently it had been a disguise; he certainly didn’t have it now.

  “The case of the female prisoner is a little less clear-cut, but only a little,” he went on. “But before we take up the question of her guilt, let us review the great popular movement we represent, and remind ourselves of what is at stake here that transcends all considerations of sentiment and bourgeois humanitarianism…”

  Then he was off. It was quite a speech. He went back to the death of the tyrant Caesar at the hands of that great people’s liberator, Brutus, and took it from there. We heard about the IRA, the PLO, FLQ, the SLA, and numerous other initials that meant nothing to me. The Weathermen and the Muslims each got a patronizing pat on the head along with protest movements I’d never heard of on continents I’d never visited and was fairly sure he hadn’t, either. We got Bolívar and Juarez, Guevara and Arafat…

  There was a crash as Joan Market struck the flimsy table with both fists, rising. The room was suddenly silent.

  “What are you trying to do to me?” she whispered. “What are you trying to do to me?”

  23

  I felt the barge shift positions minutely against the dock in response to wind or current. I could hear the faint sound of a radio or TV set operating down in the hold under my feet, and I wondered how much reception they could get surrounded by all that metal. I wondered absently what kind of a miserable, dank, dark metal cave of a dormitory they had down there. The above-deck accommodations were bad enough. Frechette stirred in an embarrassed way and looked up at the woman standing tall above him with her wild hairdo making her look even taller.

  “Now, Joanie,” he said mildly.

  “You left out Jesus Christ and George Washington,” she sneered. “Don’t give me that now-Joanie shit! You know what today is. You know what I have to do today. What the hell do you think I am? Making me sit here and listen to this crap when you know I’ve got to make myself right about it before I do it, killing people isn’t just a natural function like going to the can!”

  He cleared his throat. “Certain decisions must be made—”

  “They don’t must be made today! I asked you to put it off; what’s the goddamned rush? Corny speeches don’t must be made today and I don’t must listen to a lot of bullshit before I… Damn you, Jake, what is it with you these days, anyway? We had it all settled a long time ago, you and Danny and I. We were going to have a real revolutionary movement, not just another goddamned yak-yak group-therapy outfit. No goddamned wild-eyed speeches. No goddamned military titles. No crappy secret-agent code names. No goddamned secret guerilla armies or delusions of grandeur, no corny secret headquarters where we could be trapped, just a small bunch of dedicated underground fighters moving fast, moving silently, striking where it would hurt the bastards worst—and it was working, damn you, it was working! We had them running scared, by God. And now look at us, blasted out of that fucking crazy-house hideout, penned up in this weirdo floating pigsty! Who the hell needs a headquarters, anyway? Who needs all that rat-tat-tat guns? What’s it all for except a goddamned ego trip—”

  Frechette said stiffly, “It has been clearly demonstrated that an organization like ours must have efficient administration and strong defensive capabilities.”

  “Defensive bullshit!” she said. “We don’t defend, we attack. And we were attacking damned successfully until you—”

  “Were we?” he snapped, interrupting her. His voice was sharp. “Well, I suppose you’re right up to a point, my dear. We were attacking successfully until your husband Danny blew himself up with one of his homemade bombs, a martyr to the Cause or to his own clumsiness, I’ve never quite figured out which!”

  She had swung to face him. “Don’t you sneer at Danny! Don’t you dare sneer at Danny!”

  “My apologies. I forgot. Dan Market bungled a simple job so he is now one of the brightest saints of our movement. Of course, I’ll admit he did manage to take the Davidson girl’s weakling husband with him, let’s give him credit for that. Even if he did it by accident instead of according to our prearranged plan, he silenced that traitor in time, which is more than can be said for the way his wife was handled. I told you she wasn’t to be trusted, remember? I told you she suspected the truth, she had to suspect the truth about how her husband died and why. I told you it was all just a trick—”

  “And then you said we should let the bitch in anyway so we could keep an eye on her, remember?”

  “Mr. Chairman!” It was the young black man in the green coveralls. “Mr. Chairman, General, sir, can we please get back to the subject of the meeting and skip the recriminations, sir?” His voice wasn’t nearly as respectful as his words.

  “Point well taken,” Frechette said after a moment’s pause. “You hear the man, Joanie. The subject is—”

  “I know what the subject is,” Joan Market snapped. “The real subject is one of the fancy remote-controlled explosive fucking devices we’re using these days. It was planted this morning by Ruthie and me. It’s now going to have to be fired on schedule by somebody. Who wants the job? Here!”

  The cabin was silent once more as she dug into one of the big pockets of her skirt and brought out a black plastic object that seemed to be a diminutive transistor radio. She laid it on the table and flicked a switch with her thumb. I heard the girl with the red headband, closest to me, suck in her breath sharply as a tiny red light appeared in a corner of the plastic case.

  “It’s really very simple,” Joan Market said. “Just tur
n it on like a radio, remember? You can even get AM programs on it, so keep the volume all the way down when the time comes unless you want to do it to a country-and-western accompaniment. Or the goddamned news. It is a radio and nobody can tell different without taking it apart. But if you’re in the right area, anywhere within a quarter of a mile, and press the button—here—that says DIAL LIGHT, it will come in louder than any radio you ever heard. It will sound like the end of the world, and that’s just what it will be for a lot of people. Since you’ve made it clear you don’t want to leave me in peace to do it my way, there it is. All yours, General Frechette.”

  She pushed it towards him. He didn’t move to take it. She made an angry sound in her throat.

  “What’s the matter, General Jake?” she demanded. “Here’s your chance to do it your way. Ruthie’ll brief you. She’ll show you where to wait, where you’ll be safe from the blast but close enough, and she’ll handle the kids for camouflage—see that dirty hippie family wouldn’t you think they’d take a bath sometimes—and get them the hell out of the area before it’s time. Robbie’s very good about having to go pee on cue, and Sissy likes spraying the paint around. And Ruthie’ll tell you the signal you’ll be given by a sanctified messenger, of that great friend of humanity and social reform, Mr. Emilio Brassaro.” The woman started to turn away, and glanced back. “Oh, you’d better switch it off now or you’ll run down the batteries. Good luck, General.”