The Annihilators

by Donald Hamilton

  I said, “You are that person, Your Excellency.”

  He frowned quickly. “I do not understand!”

  I said, “You are highly regarded in Washington, Excelentisimo. It is considered of vital importance that you and your administration be safeguarded against all threats.”

  “Washington’s concern is appreciated. But what further steps can be taken in this particular situation?”

  I looked at him for a moment. I hoped it was a significant look. “This man Bultman,” I said deliberately. “Are you certain he is capable?”

  Rael frowned again. “He comes well recommended. What are you suggesting?”

  “I have a personal, vengeful interest in his success, of course,” I said. “But as a representative of my government, I feel also that it is of extreme importance that Hector Jimenez be eliminated before he can put his military experience to use here. I have fought beside Jimenez, Your Excellency. Whatever his failings in other respects, he is a good soldier. If he should be permitted to live, if he should manage to join forces with his older son, he could become a serious menace to Your Excellency.” I was, I decided, becoming a truly accomplished liar, in my flowery way.

  “We are well aware of this,” Rael said. “Do you contend that Señor Bultman is not competent to carry out this mission? His record is excellent.”

  “His record was excellent,” I said. “But he led a raid into Cuba, not too long ago that was a complete failure, and he received a crippling wound in the course of it. Such a thing has been known to affect a man’s courage and interfere with his efficiency. And in confidence, Your Excellency, I must tell you that the ‘rescue’ he is supposed to have performed a few days ago did not happen in quite the heroic way he doubtless reported it. Let us say that he required a little help. He would have been in a bad spot without it.”

  Rael’s little eyes were narrow. “You mean he lied?”

  I spread my hands in a soothing gesture. “Please, Your Excellency, such ugly words are inappropriate. Was there ever a military commander who diminished his achievements in his report of an engagement? Señor Bultman’s arrival was truly very welcome. Nobody in our party begrudges him his reward for the services he performed for us, even if those services were perhaps not quite as great as he may have claimed. I am merely suggesting that it might be well to let a competent observer go along with him on this Chicago mission; a man capable of giving advice and, perhaps, correcting errors before they are made; perhaps even taking charge, if the situation should call for it.”

  Rael was frowning at me. “You are asking our permission to accompany and assist Señor Bultman? But—”

  I shook my head quickly. “Not I, Your Excellency. I repeat that my agency cannot afford to become openly involved. But you have a trained and experienced man quite close to you.” I paused, and spoke carefully: “He should be quite capable of steadying Señor Bultman’s hand if it should falter on a simple job like this, since I have heard that he claims to be the man whose genius was largely responsible for bringing Your Excellency to power.”

  “That is an untruth!” Rael’s face was suddenly dark with anger so strong that he forgot to employ his customary royal plural. “I planned and executed the campaign that overthrew the corrupt Jimenez. I had many loyal allies and assistants, to be sure, but they operated to my orders!”

  The fact was that before his political elevation, Armando Rael had been a fairly prominent Santa Rosalia attorney with no military experience whatever; his present rank and medals were self-bestowed. But by this time he had undoubtedly convinced himself that he had conquered his country practically single-handed. They always do.

  I shrugged apologetically. “You know how these rumors get started, Excelentisimo. I beg your pardon if I have said anything wrong.”

  A mean little smile twitched the thin black moustache. “But you are correct, of course. Much as we will regret having the so-efficient Señor Echeverria absent from his post, he is the logical man for this task. We will issue the orders immediately…”

  32

  It was snowing in Chicago. I didn’t get there until well after dark the following day, a little surprised to find myself back in winter again. You tend to think that the weather you’ve got, wherever you are, is a worldwide phenomenon. As we drove away from O’Hare I sat in the passenger seat beside the man who’d come to meet me, shivering with my thin, tropical blood in my thin tropical clothes until the heater got the situation under some kind of control.

  Already, I found, after a day of fighting airline schedules to which the airlines didn’t seem to pay much attention, Costa Verde seemed a long way off; and so did the people I’d known there. This had its advantages in certain instances, such as the case of Frances Dillman.

  We’d said our polite good-byes that morning in the hotel lobby with Dr. Archibald Dillman standing by looking very bored by his handsome wife’s dull tour companion, me; so that I knew she was still keeping our guilty secret. Now I was careful not to bring her too clearly to mind, because I knew pain was there waiting to be exposed and awakened. To hell with it, I told myself firmly; you can’t have all the girls in the world, and what would you do with them if you did get them?

  I allowed myself to think, instead, of the Señor Honorable Director Enrique Echeverria. When I’d seen him waiting for me at the airport with an SSN escort, I’d thought something must, have slipped badly and it was my turn for La Fortaleza, which was, of course, exactly what I was supposed to think.

  “Señor Helm?” There were two of them, obviously SSN thugs, obviously armed, obviously hoping for some kind of resistance. The taller one spoke. “Señor Echeverria sends his compliments and wonders if you would spare him a moment of your time, señor. This way, por favor.”

  Down there, I’m sure, when they lead you up to the scaffold, they say they’re very sorry to inconvenience the gracious señor, but if he would be so kind as to incline his head slightly to facilitate the placement of the noose, his cooperation would be greatly appreciated. I was marched over to where Enrique Rojo was waiting. He regarded me coldly for a long moment, letting me sweat, knowing exactly what I was thinking because so many others had thought it before me when confronted by the red-bearded director of the infamous Servicio Seguridad National. Then he smiled thinly.

  “I am instructed by His Excellency, President Armando Rael, to give you His Excellency’s best wishes for a pleasant journey, and to tell you that His Excellency hopes you will again honor our country with your presence in the near future.”

  I bowed. “Please inform His Excellency that his gracious words are greatly appreciated.”

  Echeverria said, unsmiling. “That is my president’s message, Señor Helm. Now hear mine: Please do not take that return invitation too seriously. If you are as intelligent as I think, you will give Costa Verde a wide berth in the future.”

  I regarded him for a moment. He was really a very good-looking chap, in his sinister way. I remembered Ricardo Jimenez’s brutally crippled body confined to the wheelchair; but that was not really my concern and I put the memory away. There was no need to let this man know what I felt about him beyond what he doubtless guessed already.

  “The warning is noted, Honorable Director,” I said.

  A flicker of something that might have been uneasiness showed in his brown eyes for a moment. I knew that he was receiving certain messages about me despite my poker face—and poker mind—and that they were telling him that it was not wise for him to let me leave this country alive. But he had definite instructions, and his president was already displeased with him; he could not take the risk of incurring further displeasure.

  He said, “Very well. You may go.”

  Then I was on board the plane; and shortly the roaring jets were shoving us up into the blue tropical sky. For once, smoggy, snowy Chicago looked very good to me when I finally arrived there. It was great to hear people talking crude Ingles for a change instead of flowery español. Even the black, glistening stree
ts along which we drove looked attractive and friendly, now that I was safely out of the Costa Verde trap. The snow was melting where it hit the pavement, but it left a sugary frosting on the parked cars that glittered under the street lights.

  I looked at the man behind the wheel, who’d been in charge of our local arrangements ever since Eleanor Brand’s kidnaping and death had caused Mac to throw an abnormally large task group, for us, into the Chicago area. My driver was thin and wiry, with a lined farmer’s face and very pale blue eyes. I knew him only as Jackson. I wondered idly, as you always do, where Mac had got this one and what kind of training he’d had. It couldn’t have been my kind of training or he wouldn’t be running surveillance errands—well, not unless he’d hit, or been hit by, something very bad in the line of duty, bad enough to disqualify him from the heavy work of the agency.

  “Thawed out?” he asked, sensing from my glance that I was not ready for conversation. “There’s a flask in the glove compartment, if a little antifreeze… No? All right. We’ve put you in the Allmand Hotel. It’s about a twenty-minute drive from Lake Park, less at the time of night you’ll probably be heading out that way. We retrieved your suitcase—your other suitcase, the one you brought with you from Europe—from the Brand apartment right after you left town, so you won’t have to go shopping for warm clothes. It should be in your room by this time. You’ve got a car in the hotel garage, a little Datsun. All you have to do is call and they’ll bring it up front for you.”

  “Any word yet from our super-Aryan friend?”

  “Yes. The word. Bultman goes in at oh two hundred in the morning, day after tomorrow.”

  I grimaced. “The Kraut moves fast, once he gets going, damn him. He’s not leaving me much time. Weather report?”

  “Clearing. Winds ten to fifteen southwest tomorrow, easing toward nightfall. Calm tomorrow night.”

  I grimaced. “Well, they’ve got to be right some time. Let’s hope this is the time.”

  “Instructions?”

  “Get everybody to hell out of Lake Park; tell them to take their cigarette butts and bobby pins with them. Make sure there’s no sign of us out there. It’s Bultman’s baby now. We don’t want to be involved in what happens next, in any way… Well, just one way, but I’ll take care of that.”

  “Yes, we managed to get you a spot up in the new Park Towers, but it wasn’t easy. Fortunately somebody knew somebody who knew somebody who was willing to take a little trip, for a consideration, and keep his mouth shut.”

  “How safe?” I asked.

  Jackson shrugged. “Only one way is really safe.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that important; leave the poor guy alone. If he’s got any brains at all, he’ll keep his mouth shut when he figures out how his apartment was used, if he ever does. It may not ever come out, if we’re lucky.”

  Jackson nodded. “Here’s the key. It’s a dupe, just ditch it in a safe place when you’re through with it. You’ll have an observer and a helper. I’ll let you know the routine tomorrow night after I’ve checked with them again.”

  “What about a range?”

  “There’s a shooting club south of town where they play the silhouette-target game. It’s very popular these days, it seems: using high-powered rifles to knock down metal silhouettes of rabbits, turkeys, deer, moose. Well, I may not have quite the right tin animals, but they shoot them at fairly long distances and have a safe backstop area. You ought to be able to take care of your business there. I’ve made the arrangements.”

  “And the rifle?”

  “I’ll drive you out in the morning. I’ll bring the gun. And get it to the apartment afterward.” He gave me a quick glance and grinned. “Don’t say it. Yes, sir, I will treat it as if it were made of glass after you’ve got it sighted in. Like as if it were a bottle of nitro ready to blow at a jiggle. I know how you long-range boys are about your precious guns…”

  I slept well that night. The chore ahead of me didn’t worry me greatly—you learn not to let them—and you don’t louse up your internal clock flying north and south the way you do flying east and west. In the morning I was informed that the Chicago satellite community of Lake Park had been totally cleared of our people, but not before reports had come in to the effect that the Jimenez establishment out there was now under surveillance by others. Bultman was moving his forces into position, presumably employing the information I’d given him—after doing a little careful checking of his own, no doubt.

  I took a ride into the country with Jackson and got bounced around a bit by the big rifle—that .300 Holland and Holland Magnum is considered small stuff by the rugged gents who fire enormous double-barreled guns at elephants in Africa; but it’s still a very potent firearm with plenty of authority at the butt as well as at the muzzle. It took me a full box of cartridges to get it zeroed in properly, since the original telescopic sight, designed for daylight sniping, had been replaced at the last minute by a tricky optical device more suitable for night work. I returned to the Allmand Hotel with my shoulder sore and my ears bruised by the hearing protector I’d worn that Jackson must have borrowed from somebody with a noisy job and a small head.

  After a somewhat belated lunch I crawled into one of the big double beds in my room for a nap, since there was a long wakeful night ahead. Around five I was aroused by the telephone and listened to Jackson telling me that Bultman had just confirmed date and time. The Kraut was going in tonight. Well, at oh two hundred; which made it technically tomorrow morning…

  33

  I tried very hard to think about Gloria Jean Putnam as I drove the little Datsun in the dark toward the. Chicago suburb where the big rifle awaited me. Why Gloria Jean? Well, she was one of the least disturbing subjects I could dredge up, and I tried to visualize her now, wondering whether or not she really had sent her man off to war.

  Of course I could have occupied my mind, but not so safely, with thoughts of Frances Dillman, wondering if she was still keeping our adulterous secret or if she had succumbed to the terrible wifely urge to confess all.

  Eleanor Brand would not have been a safe subject for reflection; there was too much disturbing guilt associated with her death to make her good thinking material for a man who’d need to be totally relaxed quite soon. However, even Elly was safer to think about than the shot I’d have to make shortly.

  The best way to fluff a difficult shot is to think too much about it. Oh, advance planning and preparation are necessary, of course: The gun must be properly tuned and sighted, and the ammunition must be carefully loaded unless you’re willing to settle for the lesser accuracy of the factory product—perfectly reliable, of course, but in the nature of things it can never be tailored to the characteristics of your particular rifle. The target area must be inspected to make certain that no twigs or branches will intervene to deflect the bullet. The firing point must be selected with care, and a steady rest provided. The probable wind conditions must be studied; and a table of allowances must be prepared for various wind velocities. The range must, of course, be determined with care although, with a powerful, flat-shooting weapon like the .300 H. and H., you do have some leeway.

  But once all this has been done, the thinking must stop. In particular, all clever last-minute brainstorms, adjustments, inspirations, and corrective impulses must be strangled at birth.

  I could still remember, very clearly, my first shot at an antelope. I was a boy, hunting with my father; and there was the dream buck we’d been looking for. But he looked so small compared to the mule deer I’d already hunted successfully! The mental computer went into action unbidden: Looking so small, he must be very far away, best to hold over a hit to allow for the drop of the bullet at that great range. So I shot high, and missed high; and it was another two years before I finally bagged an antelope, not nearly as spectacular as that one. Actually, the target had looked small simply because the pronghorn is a small animal. A dead-center hold such as Dad had carefully instructed me to use would have got me tha
t trophy—the first one lost to me by excessive cerebration, but not the last.

  Tonight I knew that I had a particularly dangerous trap to look out for. I’d be shooting from the eighth floor of an apartment building into the front yard of a house four hundred and twenty yards away. It was a downhill shot in a sense; and everyone knows that the tendency is to shoot high downhill, and that therefore you must always hold low under such conditions. Well, this is perfectly true on a steep mountainside where you’re estimating the range along the precipitously sloping ground between you and the target. Gravity does not operate in a slanting direction; bullet drop does not depend upon the slant distance to the target but only upon the horizontal component thereof; so on long shots you have to hold under to allow for this.

  But here the range figure I’d been given, and for which I’d sighted the rifle, was the horizontal distance from the base of the selected condominium to the Jimenez garage doors. As a matter of fact, the difference between the range measured from the base of the building, and that measured from my eighth-story-window firing point, was insignificant. (I’d actually punched it out on a pocket calculator: 420.0 yards versus 421.3 yards.) So I reminded myself firmly as I drove that when I got up there I must not, repeat, not, think of it as a downhill shot even though I was fairly high in the air. In fact I must not think of it at all. The thinking had all been done. All that was required now was the shooting…

  There had once been many large estates out in the Chicago suburb known as Lake Park, perhaps even before it was known as Lake Park; but a significant percentage of them had gone for apartments and developments now. The Park Towers occupied, I’d been told, part of what was formerly a model horse-breeding establishment owned by a gent who’d made his money selling some kind of pain-killer pills. The adjacent property was still intact, however it had been owned by a soft-drink king and was now the retreat-in-exile of the former president of Costa Verde, along with his daughter, his younger son, and their well-armed entourage.