The Infiltrators

by Donald Hamilton

  I wondered how they’d managed to conceal three unmistakable long-range rifle-bullet holes in one of the bodies; but a short-range shotgun blast will tear things up so badly that little things like that tend to go unnoticed, particularly if the examiner has been instructed not to look too hard. I wondered what had happened to Willy Chavez’s body, but he was the kind of man who wouldn’t be missed much. A lot of bodies have disappeared out there on the desert without a trace.

  I asked what else had been happening, and Mac said I didn’t really need to know. He said he’d been told, quite firmly, that he didn’t need to know, either. We’d done our part, we’d accomplished our mission, and that was all that should concern us. Curiosity about a certain program of Advanced Human Managerial Studies was being strictly discouraged. However, I might be interested to learn that in line with current governmental economy directives, the three Centers for Advanced Defense Research were being closed down as an unwarranted drain on the national science budget. In another move in the same money-saving direction, the nation’s undercover and law-enforcement agencies had undergone a certain amount of consolidation. The Office of Federal Security had been abolished and its duties and responsibilities had been assumed by the FBI, which was having a little trouble determining exactly what they were.

  Later, they let a cop come in to see me, a chunky uniformed man with a broad Indian face. I recognized him, of course; I’d made a special effort to memorize that face. He said his piece very nicely: Chief Manuel Cordoba had suggested that it would be appropriate for him to come in and apologize for kicking me. He’d seen his primo lying dead beside me—the word means cousin, or perhaps first cousin, but in those parts it’s used very loosely—and he’d lost his temper, he was very sorry. I said I understood and it was perfectly all right. I watched him march out stiffly. Like hell I did and like hell it was. But Cordoba was a smart man. He knew that, having received the apology, I’d do nothing further about it, even if I should happen to meet Officer Saiz in a convenient dark alley sometime when I had heavy boots on.

  Still later, Bob Wills appeared. “The sling,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I heard you were griping about that rifle shooting so low after we’d checked it out for you. But you shot target-fashion using the rifle sling, right? Downward pull on the stock. Well, the fore-end. But we’d sighted it in from a rest, the way Maxie Reis had used it. Upward push on the fore-end. Some rifles just happen to be very sensitive to variations in fore-end pressure, that’s all.”

  He was very self-righteous about it, and it wasn’t worth arguing about. “It’s okay. The job got done,” I said.

  “Here’s what you wanted,” he said, placing a large, well-filled manila envelope on the bedside table. “What do I do about Scarface and his pal?”

  “Dellenbach and Nolan?” I said. I grimaced. “That’s right, I shot off my mouth, kind of, about what I’d do to them if they ever molested Mrs. Ellershaw again. So chop off their right hands and turn them loose.” I saw him looking shocked, and grinned. “Hell, let them go. Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, somebody once said, I forget who.”

  “Emerson?”

  A little surprised, I regarded him more closely. Well, it’s hard to tell by looking who’s read a book and who hasn’t.

  “If you say so,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Hell, I’m just guessing. It sounds kind of like Emerson, but it could have been six other guys. Well, take care.”

  “You too.”

  It was next day before they came. I’d been expecting them. I’d been aware that she’d often been in the hospital room watching over me, as in Santa Paula, back when things were critical; but I hadn’t seen her since, and I knew her very well by this time. The fact that once I was over the worst she hadn’t felt able to drop in casually meant that she had something to tell me I wouldn’t like. She was waiting to be sure I was well enough that it wouldn’t interfere with my recovery.

  They made quite a handsome couple together. The glowing face of the man let me know I’d guessed correctly. He was dressed very properly as became a respectable young attorney whose prospects with his firm had become quite bright with the removal, through accidental shooting and natural death, of a couple of superannuated partners. But Walter Maxon was all business at first. He wanted to let me know that—although it was old stuff now—he had investigated the property records as I’d asked and learned that the old Orozco Grant had been purchased a good many years ago, before there had been any of this recent title trouble, by a group of investors that included Waldemar Baron, who’d also done the legal work on the deal. Having relieved himself of that information, he stood there fidgeting uncertainly for a moment before delivering his big news.

  “Lainie and I are getting married. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I didn’t look at Madeleine. She’d never before allowed herself to be called anything but Madeleine in my hearing, although she’d told me that in prison they’d called her Elly for Ellershaw, but clearly her proud fiancé had invented this diminutive as a token of affectionate possession and she was willing to go along with it. She was watching me steadily, gravely, silently; but I sensed very clearly that she was asking me not to spoil it for her.

  “Mind?” I said heartily. “Why should I mind? I think it’s great.” I held out my hand. “Congratulations, amigo, and my best wishes to both of you.”

  “Thank you. Well… well, Lainie has some kind of business she wants to discuss with you privately. I’ll wait outside.”

  Then he was gone and I allowed myself, at last, to look at the woman I’d known as a shabby ex-convict, and a sweaty trainee at the Ranch, and a grimy kidnap victim. And in between times an intelligent and pleasant companion and, occasionally but not often enough, a loving bedmate. But this was still another Madeleine Rustin Ellershaw: a serene and confident and beautiful woman in a smart black dress and smoky sheer stockings and high-heeled black pumps. I frowned at the dark, unspringlike costume; then I understood.

  “Mourning?”

  Madeleine nodded. “A little late, nine years late, but it was, after all, a funeral, and I felt like making a… a final gesture.” Her voice became strained. “Not that there was much left to bury.”

  “So your husband was there after all?”

  She nodded. “At the bottom of the mine shaft, just as we thought. It’s a little eerie, isn’t it? How we could guess so right on the basis of a crazy dream. The identification is positive, never mind the gruesome details. They released the… the body at last yesterday. We had the funeral today.” She hesitated. “Roy wasn’t alone. She was down there too. Bella Kravecki. At least the skeleton was feminine; they haven’t confirmed that identification yet. Poor girl, she thought she was being brought out here just to make the espionage frame-up look good—our supposed Commie contact girl—but after she’d served her purpose, Waldemar apparently had her killed right along with Roy to keep her quiet.” Madeleine hesitated, and glanced at the door through which Walter Maxon had gone. “Thanks, Matt,” she said softly. “You did that very nicely. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” I said.

  She stood by the bed looking down at me, obviously arranging in her mind what she had to say to me, to get it absolutely right. I saw that there was a much greater change in her than could be accounted for by just a clean face and a handsome dress. The predatory hunting female I’d recognized at the Ranch, full of hate and anger for what had been done to her, was gone, being no longer needed. This was a calm and civilized lady dismissing by an act of will all the previous ugly incarnations that had been forced upon her, and the people associated with those incarnations. Like me.

  But I was glad to note that her voice was a little unsteady when she spoke at last: “On… on the personal level there isn’t much to say, is there? We like each other, but we aren’t kids to talk about love. And is that what we have between us, anyway?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think you know. A
nd I don’t think I’m strong enough or brave enough, after everything that’s happened to me, to embark upon the great adventure of finding out. So let’s talk about the other thing, the fact that you’re probably disappointed in me now, and feel that I’ll be… well, wasting myself as the very proper wife of a small-town lawyer, after all your careful training and guidance.” She shook her head quickly. “But I wasn’t really born to fight and kill, my dear. It was something that had to be done, for my sake as well as yours, vengeance if you like, payment for the years they’d stolen from me. Retribution. Nobody should be allowed to do what they did to me and get away with it; and if that’s contrary to the gentle Christian ethic I was taught as a girl, it’s just too damn bad. Anyway it’s done now. Finished. I can live with it now; with everything that’s happened to me. I can put it all behind me and forget it. I can start a new life, and this is the life I want. I’ll make him a good wife, you’ll see.”

  It was a humble statement on the face of it; but I wondered if Walter Maxon knew what he was letting himself in for, because I had a hunch this very bright lady would wind up subtly guiding him, without his knowledge, to achievements he’d never hoped for, the achievements she’d once hoped to attain for herself. But perhaps I was selling the man short. Possibly one of the reasons he’d loved her so long and loyally was that he’d sensed in her the driving qualities he lacked; and knew they’d work very well together, a team to be reckoned with.

  I said, rather pompously because there was a certain amount of hurt involved, “As I just told your Walter, you have my very best wishes, Madeleine. I hope it all comes your way from now on; you’ve earned it.” I started to reach for the envelope on the nearby dresser, but the corset wouldn’t let me, so I just waved a hand at it instead. “That’s for you. Call it a wedding present now… Open it.” I watched her as she looked inside. I said, “Computer printouts. Membership lists for the various regional CADRES; they had the country divided into about a dozen units. Organization tables. Infiltration plans. Tentative final-strike plans, to be developed further. Remember, this is what Roy Ellershaw got out of the big CADRE computer nine years ago, so it’s obsolete in a sense, or we wouldn’t be passing copies around. But it showed us the general shape of the threat and gave us enough names to work from. Of course it’s still highly classified, I don’t have to tell you that. Burn after reading and all that stuff.”

  She nodded. “How did you find it? I thought they’d destroyed… We saw the ashes in Uncle Joe’s fireplace.”

  I shook my head. “Wrong copy. That one was destroyed; the backup copy. This is the original material your husband gave you piecemeal, in sealed envelopes, to put away into your safe-deposit box, and Bennett found there. I had a hunch a guy like that wouldn’t hand over his blackmail material trustingly, no matter what high government position he was promised. He’d keep it hidden somewhere for insurance. We got the hiding place out of him, and a confession, with a little, er, persuasion and a promise of immunity. There’s also a covering letter from your husband. I think you should wait until you’re alone to read it. It’s kind of between the two of you, and I regret the necessity for snooping. The guy seems to have loved you quite a lot.” I watched her close the envelope again, and said, “Anyway, copies are in the hands of the authorities, along with Bennett’s statement admitting the substitution he pulled to frame you, and the money he planted on you; and of course there’s also the discovery of your husband’s body for them to consider. Supporting evidence of sorts. The wheels of bureaucracy are turning in their usual ponderous fashion. Pretty soon you’ll be a respectable lady again with all the marks against you officially erased.”

  She was silent for a moment; then she whispered, “Damn you, Matt, how can I ever repay—”

  “Cut it out,” I said. “We made a deal of sorts, and you more than kept your part of it. That careful training and guidance you mentioned wasn’t wasted no matter what you choose to do about it now. It served its purpose, didn’t it? With your help, at the risk of your life, we got where we needed to go. Functioning as my bodyguard as planned, you saved my life at least twice, maybe three times—I gather that, even beat-up as you were, you did a hell of a job of getting me back to civilization before I drowned in my own blood. The debt runs both ways. What do you want us to do, keep score?”

  She leaned down and kissed me gently on the lips, and raised her head a bit to look at me searchingly, very close. In that moment I knew she was mine if I wanted to take her; but I also knew that gratitude for what she still thought she owed me, regardless of my protests, would play a large part in her decision, and who the hell wants a grateful woman? Anyway, I couldn’t give her what she really wanted: the security and peace and total respectability she needed now, after all the shocking years of abuse and despair.

  “Your fiancé is waiting, Mrs. E.,” I said.

  “Take care of yourself,” she said. “Oh, here’s something you’d better have back. I… don’t think I’ll be needing it anymore.”

  I looked down at the little penknife she’d put into my hand. I watched her go out of the room, very straight and lovely in her black mourning dress. Two weeks later I was pronounced, optimistically, fit to travel. By the time I’d made it down to Albuquerque to catch the plane east, and stumbled aboard after the usual endless wait, I wasn’t so sure about that diagnosis.

  I found my way to the first-class seat I’d blown myself to—or the government had blown me to, if I could manage it—since I was still taped up and needed all the fidget-room I could get. I’d picked the aisle seat for easy access and egress. I was glad to see that the occupant of the window seat was already in place with her nose buried in a magazine: a small girl in a neat beige gabardine suit and a pretty, ruffly white blouse who, judging by what could be seen of her, was hardly old enough to be traveling by herself. I got my coat stowed in the overhead locker, with an effort, and tried to shove my bag into place under the seat ahead, but bending over that far wasn’t easy. The child in the window seat put down the magazine behind which she’d been hiding and leaned over to help me, making me feel quite senile.

  I realized abruptly that she wasn’t all that small; and she wasn’t all that young, either. All dressed up in her expensive traveling suit, she was a very pretty young woman; and the cap of dark hair was very smooth, and the black eye was gone, and the freckles were subdued, and the snub nose… Well, there’s no law saying that all girls must have perfectly straight aristocratic noses. In fact it would be a very dull world if they did.

  When she straightened up to look at me, I saw that she’d grown up a lot since I’d seen her last. She was no longer a kid playing games with unrequited love. There was adult heartbreak in her gray-green eyes, behind the smile she gave me. We had something in common. We were both recent losers in the emotional crap game.

  “What are you doing here, Vangie?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, really,” Evangeline Lowery said with intriguing honesty. “But there isn’t anything left for me to hang around Santa Fe for, and you’re not really well enough to be traveling alone. And I kind of thought that, together, we rejects might be able to figure something out.”

  We did.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Donald Hamilton was the creator of secret agent Matt Helm, star of 27 novels that have sold more than 20 million copies worldwide.

  Born in Sweden, he emigrated to the United States and studied at the University of Chicago. During the Second World War he served in the United States Naval Reserve, and in 1941 he married Kathleen Stick, with whom he had four children.

  The first Matt Helm book, Death of a Citizen, was published in 1960 to great acclaim, and four of the subsequent novels were made into motion pictures. Hamilton was also the author of several outstanding standalone thrillers and westerns, including two novels adapted for the big screen as The Big Country and The Violent Men.

  Donald Hamilton died in 2006.

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

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sp; The Matt Helm Series

  BY DONALD HAMILTON

  The long-awaited return of the United States’ toughest special agent.

  Death of a Citizen

  The Wrecking Crew

  The Removers

  The Silencers

  Murderers’ Row

  The Ambushers

  The Shadowers

  The Ravagers

  The Devastators

  The Betrayers

  The Menacers

  The Interlopers

  The Poisoners

  The Intriguers

  The Intimidators

  The Terminators

  The Retaliators

  The Terrorizers

  The Revengers

  The Annihilators

  The Detonators (June 2016)

  The Vanishers (August 2016)

  The Demolishers (October 2016)

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  PRAISE FOR DONALD HAMILTON

  “Donald Hamilton has brought to the spy novel the authentic hard realism of Dashiell Hammett; and his stories are as compelling, and probably as close to the sordid truth of espionage, as any now being told.” Anthony Boucher, The New York Times

  “This series by Donald Hamilton is the top-ranking American secret agent fare, with its intelligent protagonist and an author who consistently writes in high style. Good writing, slick plotting and stimulating characters, all tartly flavored with wit.” Book Week

  “Matt Helm is as credible a man of violence as has ever figured in the fiction of intrigue.” The New York Sunday Times

  “Fast, tightly written, brutal, and very good…” Milwaukee Journal

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  A series of slick espionage thrillers from the New York Times bestselling “Queen of Spy Writers.”