The Annihilators

by Donald Hamilton

  In the meantime, Lieutenant Barbera was undergoing punishment for his offense. It consisted of systematic humiliation. He took turns at sentry duty with the common soldiers and was even required to help them prepare and distribute the food. I suppose it suited the crime in a way, being a form of castration; but I wondered if Gloria Jean Putnam and her husband considered it adequate. They were tragically polite to, and considerate of, each other these days; it was easy to see that they hadn’t come to terms with the disaster that had struck their marriage.

  “I want to shake those poor damn kids sometimes.” It was plump, gray-haired Emily Henderson, the general’s wife, wearing a short yellow terrycloth robe over her flowered old-fashioned bathing suit, the kind with a little skirt—no bikinis or tank suits here. It was our bath-and-laundry hour, and we were sitting on the bank of the cenote watching the swimming and clothes-washing while a young revolutionary soldier with a thin face and an automatic rifle stood by uncomfortably like a shabby excop guarding the presents at a glittering society wedding. Mrs. Henderson went on crudely: “So somebody else got to put it where he’d been putting it, so what? It’s not the end of the world. I’d like to give them a piece of my mind.” She gave me a quick, sharp look. “And don’t you dare tell me I can’t spare it, young man!”

  “You said it, I didn’t,” I said. “And thanks for the compliment.”

  “From where Austin and I sit, anything under sixty looks positively juvenile.”

  “Now you went and spoiled it,” I said. “You had me feeling like a kid there for a moment. As for the Putnams, they’re still in the ball game, so I think they’re better left alone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ll make it,” I said. “If they haven’t said it by now, it’ll never get said.”

  “What?”

  “The thing that would finish them. She, hurt and shamed and weeping, blurts out: Oh, God, why didn’t you stop him, what kind of a husband are you? And he, hurt and angry, snaps back: Well, it doesn’t look as if you put up such a great fight yourself, what kind of a wife are you? That would have done for the marriage, but good. But even if they thought it, and I really doubt they did, they obviously held it back; they’ve got a good chance now.”

  Emily Henderson regarded me thoughtfully for a moment. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “That’s not difficult.”

  She laughed. “You said it; I didn’t.” After a moment, and a quick glance around, she said, “Speaking of the Putnams, Jim wants to know when.”

  “Antsy, is he?”

  “He’s been ready for days.”

  “Who hasn’t been? But the longer we wait, the more careless they get. It’s hard to maintain strict guard discipline with nothing happening. And something could be happening over in Montano’s camp to help us, although we can’t count on it. Mostly, the weather’s been too good the last few days. I’d like a night with a nice noisy wind to cover our operations.” I glanced at her. “So the general took you into his confidence.”

  “Army wives always know everything, Sam. Incidentally, if there’s an extra gun, I know how to use it.”

  “That comes as no surprise to me,” I said. “I hope your husband doesn’t mind the way we’ve set up the chain of command. Jim Putnam’s military experience is more recent and the problem is more his size, if you know what I mean. We aren’t dealing with armies here.”

  She laughed. “Austin is quite satisfied with the chain of command; he’s not one of your rank-happy retired officers.” She made a face. “He’s… looking forward to it. Like an old firehorse. I hope the old fool doesn’t kill himself, running around with a gun. His heart isn’t all it should be.” She glanced at me quickly. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. And maybe you think I should be worried about his getting killed, instead. Well, the Japs tried it, and he made them wish they hadn’t before he was pulled out with all those holes in him. So I’m not worried about a bunch of half-ass greaser revolutionaries, sonny.” Her defiant voice said she was worried sick about it.

  I nodded. “Tell Jim I’ll move as soon as I get the right combination of weather and sentries.”

  “Yes. There’s another thing. Some of the group have been snooping, asking questions. Like why doesn’t a trained man like you do something instead of just marking time and fucking somebody else’s wife. Could it be that you really have something up your sleeve and are acting harmless to dispel suspicion?”

  “The Wilders?” I asked.

  “And the Tolson woman, and her sidekick, McElder.”

  I said, “In any camp like this there are always people ready to pay off their grudges by carrying information to the prison authorities.”

  “I don’t see why the Wilders are so mad at you. It wasn’t you behind that gun butt.”

  “Ah, you don’t understand the subtlety of it, ma’am. Getting mad at a man who has a gun, or lots of men who have lots of guns, is dangerous. It’s much safer getting mad at a man without a gun, telling yourself he’s the one really at fault.” I grimaced. “And then there are the panicky ones who don’t want to see the boat rocked the tiniest little bit, figuring we’ll drift safely ashore if nobody, but nobody, disturbs the delicate balance. And then there are the real weirdos who undergo some kind of transference phenomenon in a captivity situation and begin to love their captors more than their fellow captives.”

  She was studying me carefully. “And how do you feel, Sam?”

  I shrugged. “I have a very primitive reaction, doctor. Any time anybody points a gun at me and tells me to do something he has no right to tell me to do, I find my mind filled with one simple thought: How do I kill this sonofabitch?”

  She laughed softly. “And then there are the Gardenschwartzes,” she said. “They keep to themselves pretty much. I’d put them in the don’t-rock-the-boat category, but that’s just a guess. And of course your attractive cellmate.”

  We both sat for a moment watching a slender white figure in a white one-piece bathing suit doing a businesslike crawl across the cenote.

  “What about Frances?” I asked.

  “She’s spending a lot of time with Colonel Sanchez. People are noticing.”

  I spoke evenly: “She’s the camp representative. He keeps sending for her to talk over our problems. And isn’t it great that at least one of us has regular access to his HQ? If we didn’t have a Frances to go down there regularly, we’d have to invent one to keep track of what’s going on, wouldn’t we?”

  “Well, that’s one way of looking at it.” Mrs. Henderson was watching me steadily. “Are you, Sam?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Fucking her?”

  I grinned. “At the moment, no, but I wouldn’t want to try to get anybody to believe that.”

  “I believe it. You don’t have the smug, self-satisfied look of a man who’s getting his ashes hauled regularly.”

  I said, “My God, I haven’t heard that phrase used since I was a boy. And you are a foul-mouthed old lady.”

  “I’m a smart old lady. I hope you’re a smart young man. And I think you know what I mean without my drawing any blueprints for you.”

  Our eyes met for a moment, and I knew that this stout gray-haired woman knew everything about Frances Dillman she needed to know. She merely wanted to be sure I did, too, since her husband’s life, not to mention her own, might depend on my having a clear head undisturbed by irrelevant sexual complications. It was strange, I reflected, just as the Wilders had turned into total human rejects under stress, so Mrs. Austin Henderson had been transformed into a rather intelligent and confidence-inspiring old lady.

  The guard was moving our way now—they never liked to see any of us talking together too long—and I excused myself and picked up my towel and toilet kit and strolled away. The afternoon sunshine was warm and pleasant and the cenote was a beautiful spot and the people around it and in it looked like happy visitors to an expensive resort in their bright poolside costumes. I had a s
ense of unreality, knowing that the uneasy dark kid with the automatic weapon, finding the foreigners he was guarding totally incomprehensible and rather frightening, could easily misconstrue a perfectly innocent gesture and cut loose, in an instant turning the pleasant scene into a gory shambles. I heard quick footsteps behind me and paused to let Frances catch up.

  “What were you and Emily talking about so earnestly?” she asked as we moved unhurriedly toward the Nunnery.

  “She wanted to give the Putnams a piece of her mind,” I said. “I told her not to waste it.”

  Frances hesitated and glanced at me sharply. “Sam, you’re not… I mean, it would be stupid for a bunch of unarmed prisoners to plot some kind of a, well, jailbreak. When it’s just a matter of time. After all, it’s not really unbearable here, is it? And you don’t know what that jungle is like. Even if a few did manage to get away, they’d just tear themselves to pieces trying to make headway through that stuff, and Ramiro would be bound to catch them and bring them back. And punish them. Particularly you. He’s just waiting for you to… to make a false move, if you’ll excuse the corny phrase. Don’t let the others talk you into doing anything stupid, Sam. Just because I won’t sleep with you… Well, I am fond of you, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  I wondered if she really believed that we’d all be turned loose in the end to live happily ever after. But of course she had to believe it; she couldn’t have lived with herself, after what she had done, believing anything else. But her warning confirmed what I’d heard from Mrs. Henderson: Somebody had alerted Colonel Sanchez to our plans.

  I said, I hoped convincingly, “Sweetheart, I haven’t the slightest intention of tackling that goddamned arid jungle out there. It happens that I know very well what it’s like. I once carried out an operation through a similar garden of thorns and vines down near the coast not too far from here; but I had plenty of expert machete-type help and I’m quite aware that I wouldn’t have got anywhere without it. Hell, it can’t take too much longer for them to get their damn money and turn us loose, can it? Any word on the negotiations?”

  She said, “I think the money is already in this country; but the intermediary sent down from Chicago doesn’t like the specified method of delivery and is creating difficulties. And of course they’ve got to work very quietly so the authorities don’t get wind of what’s going on.”

  “Yes, I can see that Rael might not like to have the rebels financed to the extent of a million bucks. Well, I hope they get it sorted out soon.”

  We fell silent as we climbed up to the Nunnery under the eye of the sentry—an eye which, I noted, seemed to be largely concerned with the nice picture made by Frances, who’d apparently, seeing me leaving, terminated her swim and slipped on her thin white robe without pausing to dry herself. Wet from her body, the garment now clung to her in a very interesting manner. We entered our cozy home and she started toweling her hair.

  “Tell me about that jungle operation, darling,” she said. “I didn’t know you’d… worked here before.”

  “The guy’s name was Jorge Santos,” I said. “He called himself El Fuerte, the Strong One. He was the Lupe Montano of his time. I nailed him at a little over five hundred meters after my military escort moved me into position. Not a bad shot, if I do say so myself. We had a bit of a firefight breaking away.”

  There was a small silence. She’d stopped drying her hair, watching me, frowning slightly. “Why did you tell me that?” she asked.

  “Hell, you asked.”

  She shook her head slightly. “No. You’re trying to say something, Sam.”

  I said deliberately, “Maybe I was trying to remind you who I am, sweetheart. What I am. In case it wasn’t clear in your mind already. Maybe I was trying to make sure you won’t make any bad mistakes involving me.” I looked at her and drew a long, angry breath. “Goddamn it, Frances, why the hell don’t you stop playing footsie with these dumb amateur soldiers who can’t make up their minds whether they want to get free or rich?”

  She licked her lips. “You know the situation. I have no choice.” After a moment, she frowned again and said, “‘Playing footsie.’ Have people been talking? About me and Ramiro Sanchez?”

  “Let’s say that your numerous visits to headquarters have not gone unobserved.”

  Her face was pale. “Hadn’t they better make up their foul little minds?” she asked harshly. “They can’t have it both ways, or can they? Do they think I’m so insatiable I keep Ramiro for my daytime lover and save you for the night shift?” She was a slim white shape in the dusk of the chamber, in the long robe that was made of the very thin crinkly material that, I’m told, packs very well because it’s all prewrinkled so who’ll notice an additional crease or two? I saw her sway, and stepped forward to steady her; and she sighed and let herself be drawn into my arms. “It’s so lousy,” she whispered. “I don’t know how much more of it I can stand, darling.” I heard her give a strained. little laugh that had some hysteria in it. “Do you want to know something very funny, Sam?”

  “Anything you want to tell me.”

  “That nymphomaniac act of mine. Do you know how many men I’ve really slept with? Two, just two; in my whole life. My husband and… and a mystery man who calls himself Felton because that’s not his name. What is your real name?”

  “Helm,” I said. It could do no harm for her to know it now. “Matthew Helm.”

  “Did I fool you Matthew Helm? Did I convince you that I was a very wanton woman?” She laughed softly. “It was… rather fun, pretending to be a person like that. Every faithful wife should have one little fling at being a whore; but what happens when the mark she picks up on a street corner turns out to be much nicer than she expected? What does the faithful wife do then?”

  She was silent for a moment. Then she turned her face up to me for the kiss, clinging to me desperately; and her lips were warm and urgent. I untied the single little bow that closed her outer garment at the throat, and slipped the thin, damp stuff off her shoulders, and let it fall; but when I reached around to unfasten the scanty white bathing suit—it tied at the back of the neck—she grasped my wrists.

  “No!” she breathed. “Please, no! I can’t. We can’t.”

  “Make up your mind,” I said.

  She shook her head quickly. “I’m sorry. No. Please, no.”

  I let my hands fall and stepped back. ‘The lady says no. The lady says please.” My voice didn’t sound the way it was supposed to.

  “I’m sorry, Sam… Matt. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

  There were footsteps outside; they stopped at the doorway. A voice said in Spanish: “Señora Dillman. The colonel requests your presence, señora.”

  Frances drew a long breath and answered, also in Spanish: “Inform the colonel that I will attend him as soon as I have changed my costume.”

  “Si, señora.”

  I listened to the sound of army boots receding. “Saved by the bell,” I said sourly. “Do you know what the hell you’re doing, Dillman?”

  When she spoke, after a little pause, her voice sounded very tired. “Yes. I know. Now. I’m sorry, darling.”

  A few minutes later I watched her leave, tall and competent-looking in her well-cut jeans and the bright red shirt I’d seen before. Toward evening the wind came up that I’d been waiting for.

  25

  It was getting dark when Frances returned, but, even so, I could see that her hair wasn’t quite as smooth as it had been, nor was her bright silk shirt tucked into her pants quite as neatly as it had been. She gave me a bleak, meaningless look as she entered our stone room—she’d told me earlier that nobody really knew what this series of little chambers had been used for—and sat down on her pad at the other side of it and buried her face in her hands. After a little I realized that she was crying silently; but when I moved over to comfort her she shrugged my hand away.

  “Don’t touch me, I’m dirty,” she gasped. “Dirty, dirty, dirty!”

&nbs
p; “Cut it out,” I said. “Just because the Putnam kids are acting out that silly soiled-for-life routine doesn’t mean we senior citizens have to.”

  They weren’t that young, of course, and we weren’t that old. It was a feeble joke of sorts, and after a long moment of silence, she gave me a rather shy, rueful look and a reluctant little grin.

  “I guess I was overdramatizing it a bit, wasn’t I? After all, it’s not as if I’d never dreamt of sleeping with a man who wasn’t my husband.”

  I put my arm around her; this time she let me. I felt very sorry for her, and maybe for myself, too; and I touched my lips to her forehead. Her skin was smooth and cool, and she smelled faintly, sweetly, of the soap and shampoo she’d been using at the cenote earlier in the afternoon.

  “I’m a little surprised,” I said. “I thought Sanchez looked like a man who’d take pride in keeping his word. He promised that no lady would be molested.”

  “He didn’t m—molest me.” She swallowed hard. “It isn’t molestation when… when the lady permits it. Even asks for it.”

  After a moment I asked, “Why?”

  She did not answer directly. She said, “Regardless of what everybody seems to think, Ramiro’s been a perfect gentleman. Oh, he made it clear at the start that he found me desirable and wouldn’t, well, kick me out of his bed if I cared to climb into it; but it wasn’t really much more than the usual Latin gallantry. He actually did enjoy my company; and he said it was pleasant for a change to have somebody cultured and intelligent with whom to converse for an hour or so daily, stuck as he was in this dismal place surrounded by uncouth peasant-types. So we got into the habit of just talking for a while after disposing of the day’s problems. He’s really rather an interesting man, a theoretical upper-class revolutionary, Marxist of course; I think he’s actually been to Moscow for some kind of training. He scorns Lupe Montano as a clownish bandit, and I’m sure he hopes to turn the liberation movement to his own advantage, and that of his political cause, once Lupe has done the heavy work for him. Sometimes Ramiro is kind of scary; I feel he’s actually more ruthless in his aristocratic way than the savage downtrodden peons rising up against their oppressors. I wonder how many people have been slaughtered in cold blood by overeducated men and women who got their icy ideologies out of books. But to me he’s always been polite and charming.”