Contents
Cover
Also by Donald Hamilton
Title Page
Copyright
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About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
Also by Donald Hamilton and available from Titan Books
Death of a Citizen
The Wrecking Crew
The Removers
The Silencers
Murderers’ Row
The Ambushers
The Shadowers
The Ravagers
The Betrayers
The Menacers
The Poisoners (December 2014)
The Intriguers (February 2015)
The Intimidators (April 2015)
The Terminators (June 2015)
The Interlopers
Print edition ISBN: 9781783292943
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783292950
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: October 2014
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 1969, 2014 by Donald Hamilton. All rights reserved.
Matt Helm® is the registered trademark of Integute AB.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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1
I got to the river before dawn, as instructed, and nursed the Chevy pickup cautiously off the dirt road and down along the bank to the safe and solid place I’d selected late the previous afternoon when I’d scouted the area by daylight. Of course, I’d done a little evening fishing afterwards, to make it look good, but what I’d mainly been after was the assurance that, come morning, I’d be able to find the rendezvous in the dark.
Now, having found it, I switched off the headlights and went around to the rear of the vehicle and opened up the camper to let the pup out. He was still young and naive enough to take me for a dog-lover just because I fed him once a day. He paused briefly, therefore, to give my face a couple of wet licks before racing off to take care of various items of urgent dog business. I could hear him out there in the dark but I couldn’t see him since he was all Labrador and just about as black as a dog can get.
I wiped my face with my sleeve and looked across the faintly gleaming water toward the Hanford Atomic Energy Reservation. According to the map, it occupied a considerable area of the state of Washington off in that direction—northwest, if it matters—but at this hour of the morning, from where I stood on the opposite bank of the Columbia River, I could see only a few mysterious lights. I wondered if whatever they did over there had anything to do with what I was doing over here.
In any case, I hoped they knew more about their present business, whatever it was, than I knew about mine. It was one of those super-security capers that seem to develop every time agencies other than ours get into the act, and as usual I was supposed to go out and save the world with blindfold and earmuffs on, seeing and hearing nothing of a sensitive or classified nature.
I reached inside the camper and turned on the light and pulled out my fishing rod—well, it was mine now, the previous owner having no further use for it. I explored some tricky little tackle boxes and found a metallic lure that looked suitable, meaning that it looked heavy and compact enough to cast easily, and to hell with what the Columbia River steelhead trout might think of it. After some fumbling I managed to attach it to the practically invisible monofilament line by means of a little swivel-and-snaphook gadget. I leaned the rod against the truck, pulled off the cowboy boots I’d been wearing, drew on some heavy socks, and fought my way into a pair of rubber hip boots.
I switched off the camper light, picked up the rod again, glanced toward the lightening sky to the east, and headed for the wide expanse of grayly shining water to make like Ike Walton. The pup thought this was a fine, exciting project. He abandoned his business up along the shore and went racing past to splash into the water ahead of me.
“Hank,” I said, “get the hell out of there. I’m doing the fishing around here, not you. Hank, heel!”
I reached for the whistle hanging by a thong around my neck, but I didn’t need it. He was kind of a special dog. At the moment he was operating under the alias of Avon’s Prince Hannibal of Holgate—Hank for short—but his real name was equally impressive, and he’d come to me complete with as many instructions as an expensive camera. These included a list of authorized commands which, to my surprise, he usually obeyed.
I mean, I’d known hunting dogs before, but they’d been wide-ranging pointers and setters mostly, with a few hounds thrown in for good measure: all homegrown canine geniuses of a fairly independent nature. I’m sure the idea of walking docilely at heel had never occurred to any of them. Their job was to find game, not to show off their party manners. If you wanted one of them to stick around, you attached one end of a husky chain to his collar and got a good grip on the other end.
But this was a retriever and a real gold-plated pup, professionally trained. At the command he came back out of the water. He came reluctantly, but he came. He shook water all over me by way of protest—apparently there was nothing in the rules against this—and then he followed me along the bank, walking exactly level with my left knee. When I sat him down on a dry spot and told him to stay, he stayed. Somebody’d obviously put in a lot of work on him.
I left him sitting there obediently and waded out into the river, wondering if my contact was watching my antics through nightglasses, perhaps from the high ground behind me. I also wondered how long he’d make me play angler before he showed himself. There wasn’t a sign of a fish in the water ahead of me. The evening before, some big stuff had been breaking the surface out there from time to time, but this morning the river was perfectly smooth except for the shifting patterns of swirls and eddies caused by the heavy current. I heaved my spoon in the general direction of the other shore, let it sink too far before starting the retrieve, and promptly got it snagged on the rocky bottom.
&nbs
p; Maneuvering to free it, I reflected that this was a hell of a complicated identification routine to have to go through just to receive a little secret information from some guy who wasn’t supposed to have it. However, certain people were interested in uncovering that guy and a lot of others like him up here in the Northwest, not to mention being also interested in preventing the stolen information from being used to our disadvantage.
So for the time being I was a gent, named Grant Nystrom, a real sporty character, mad about fishing tackle and guns and Labrador retrievers—black Labrador retrievers, if you please. None of your offbeat yellow Labs for friend Nystrom, or your lousy Chesapeakes or Golden retrievers, either.
Just black Labs and fancy spinning and fly-fishing tackle and expensive sporting firearms for friend Nystrom, plus a rugged little sleep-two camper on a long-wheelbase half-ton chassis—a miniature house on wheels—to take him to where the fish were swimming or the birds were flying, or to where a piece of illicit data was waiting to be collected from an undercover operative and passed along to people somewhere on this continent who had the facilities for passing it along to people somewhere on another continent, people we’d rather didn’t get their hands on it, at least not before we’d had a chance to make a few judicious alterations—or substitutions; they hadn’t told me which—to render it useless and perhaps even downright misleading.
It seemed as if Nystrom had picked a pretty good cover for a courier operating out here in the great open spaces where everybody loves the outdoors or pretends to. After all, there was no real reason why contact couldn’t be made beside a trout stream as well as in a bar; and a man who likes dogs tends to be accepted as a sterling character, above suspicion.
It had been a sound enough plan, with some nice, imaginative touches, and it should have worked out well for friend Nystrom. But instead, for reasons still unknown to us, something had gone wrong. He’d met with difficulties of a fatal nature and so had his young black dog. We were callously trying to profit from their misfortunes.
In other words, my young black dog and I were taking over Grant Nystrom’s courier route where he’d abandoned it due to circumstances beyond his control. At least that was the theory as it had been explained to me in San Francisco a few days earlier by a very important counter-intelligence type from Washington who’d told me graciously that, if I had to call him something, Smith would do. One of these days I’ll meet up with one of these coy characters who’ll have picked on some family other than the poor, abused, overworked Smiths, but I haven’t yet.
“So this is the man,” Mr. Smith had said, looking me over suspiciously after the introductions, such as they were, had been made. He was a tall, ascetic-looking individual with deep-set X-ray eyes. At least he looked as if he thought he could see through my flesh and bone right down into my probably corrupt and subversive soul. I wondered how Mac had come to get us stuck with him. Well, it’s a big government and you can’t duck all the kooks. Mr. Smith frowned dubiously and said, “The resemblance isn’t really very close, is it?”
Mac said coldly, “According to the computer, it’s the best match you’re going to get if you insist on a trained U.S. agent with proper clearance. Of course, you could try Central Casting, Hollywood.”
Mr. Smith said hastily, “I didn’t mean—”
“If you’re not satisfied,” Mac went on, “just say the word. This man has plenty of work to do without pulling your people’s chestnuts out of the fire just because he bears a faint resemblance to a corpse in which you happen to be interested.”
“No, no,” Mr. Smith protested. “I just… actually, the height and weight are very good, indeed excellent. The eye color is acceptable, and the hair can be taken care of. There is, of course, a certain age difference, and a certain grimness of expression…”
“I am sure Eric will agree to change his expression if the necessity is explained to him,” Mac said, using my code name as always. My real name is Matthew Helm, but that’s beside the point. Mac went on, poker-faced: “I’m afraid we’re going to have trouble making him any younger, however. Our rejuvenation techniques are still in the experimental stage.”
Mr. Smith didn’t seem to realize he was being kidded. He said, unruffled, “Also in our favor is the fact that your man is an outdoorsman, at home with guns and fishing tackle and such. Isn’t that right?” He looked at me for the answer.
“Guns, yes,” I said. “It’s been a while since I handled a fishing rod, however.”
Mr. Smith dismissed this objection. “It’s not something a man forgets, I gather. You’ll be briefed on the latest angling techniques, of course, as used by the man you’re to impersonate. How do you get along with dogs?”
I shrugged. “We have a nonagression pact. I don’t bite them and they don’t bite me.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do a good job, Eric. You have an impressive record and we’re glad to have your help.” Mr. Smith regarded me benevolently for a moment; then his expression hardened. “Of course you’ll keep in mind at all times that security is paramount on this assignment. Absolutely paramount. My people will supply you with the information you need to do your job, no more. Well, I must start for the airport if I’m to make it back to Washington today.”
That had been in California, last week. Now I was standing knee-deep in the Columbia River, a couple of states to the north, all made up like a fisherman, with my hair bleached almost white and a black dog watching me expectantly from the bank. Daylight was upon us, and a sporty-looking coupé—one of those glamorized compacts with slanting rear decks and fancy wheel covers—was nosing its way off the dirt road and down through the brush to where my truck was parked.
It stopped there. A tall, blondish girl in jeans got out, opened the trunk, and began to climb into the kind of chest-high waders that look like baggy rubber pants with feet in them.
2
I wasn’t supposed to display any curiosity, of course. In fact, I was supposed to do nothing whatever except present myself, complete with dog and whistle, on the riverbank at dawn. Perhaps because—in my Nystrom incarnation—I was so easily described and so readily identifiable, the approach was to be made by the other party.
If this leggy female was my contact, the next step was up to her. And if she wasn’t, the less interest I displayed, the better. If I ignored her, maybe she’d go away. I just glanced at her rather coldly, therefore, like any angler finding his private fishing spot invaded by a stranger.
Then I went back to heaving my lure, which I had freed, out into the wide Columbia and cranking it back again. On the next retrieve, as it came into sight flashing erratically in the dark water, the biggest fish in the world made a lazy roll right behind it. I mean, for a trout, if it was a trout, it was a monster. Any red-blooded American boy would have found his heart beating faster at the sight of such a fish. I had no trouble doing a reasonably convincing job of impersonating a fisherman, therefore, for the next half hour or so, as I dragged everything in Grant Nystrom’s fancy tackleboxes past the spot where I thought the giant was lurking.
Nothing happened. No more fish investigated my lures—if that’s what the big one had been doing—and no humans made contact with me, either. When I looked around for the girl, she was standing in waist-deep water a couple of hundred yards upstream, swinging a heavy, two-handed, steelhead-type spinning rod with the ease that comes only with years of practice.
I cast some more, gaining skill but losing enthusiasm as the morning wore on. Finally I gave up on fish and waded ashore to make myself a little more available to people. My watch said that the contact deadline was getting close. If nothing happened by seven, my instructions were to leave the place and try the alternate rendezvous that had been provided for later in the day.
I went back to the camper, poured myself some coffee from a thermos jug, and got a doughnut out of a paper bag. Munching and sipping, I stood by the door looking out at the river. Another car had come down to join us: a rather elderly white Plymouth s
tation wagon. The occupants, two men, were fishing downstream from my spot. Nobody seemed to be catching anything.
As I turned to reach into the camper for another doughnut, having had no breakfast, I became aware that the girl had left the water and was coming toward me. The pup, whom I’d given permission to run, was romping along behind her; obviously he’d found a friend. I felt the familiar tightness come to my throat. No matter how long you’re in the business, I guess you never get over that slightly breathless feeling just before the first card is dealt to open the game. Of course, it still remained to be proved that this blond kid was in the game. She could just be a friendly female who liked fish and dogs.
She stopped in front of me. The baggy rubber waders, held up by suspenders, did nothing for her figure, but I could see that she was the reedy, rather fragile kind of tall girl: a little girl stretched out long rather than a well-proportioned Amazon. Everything about her was rather small and delicate except for the long bones, and they looked as if they’d break rather easily. She had a small, tomboy face, framed by streaky blondish hair that was parted on one side, combed down straight all around, and whacked off level an inch or so below the ears. Her eyes, I saw, were blue and innocently direct, as if she’d never heard about fluttering eyelashes and maidenly reticence.
“Is this your dog?” she said. “He’s perfectly beautiful.”
It wasn’t exactly what she was supposed to say, and it wasn’t exactly the truth, either. I mean, a Labrador isn’t really a beautiful dog like, say, an Afghan hound or an Irish setter.
I said, “He’s a good pup. Would you care for some coffee and a doughnut?”
“No, thanks. Well, yes, if they’re handy, I guess I will, please.” She waited until I’d brought her the stuff. “Are you having any luck?” she asked after a bite and a sip.
I shook my head. “No. I saw a big one roll out there, but I couldn’t interest him further. Of course, I’m not an expert on the tastes of your local fish.”
“What are you using?”
I showed her my current lure. It didn’t impress her. “Well, they sometimes take that,” she said. “But I have more luck with this rig, usually. A brass spinner and a single hook with a grasshopper on it. Of course, you’ve got to use a sinker to make it cast right. Here.” She showed it to me.
Matt Helm--The Interlopers Page 1