The Demolishers

by Donald Hamilton

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “I know. You’re all supermen out there in the field; no advice required. Unconfirmed reports credit Morelos with five kills, two bare-handed. Also…” She stopped abruptly.

  “Also what?”

  “It’s highly classified, Mr. Helm.”

  “Everything’s highly classified in Washington, up to and including the location of the public johns.” I winked at Varek. “We’re all good trusting friends together here, so fire away.”

  “Very well. The responsibility is yours. But I’ll have to report that the information has been compromised at your request.”

  I started to get annoyed at her stuffy, bureaucratic attitude. Then I detected an undercurrent of amusement in her voice and realized that, guessing what I was trying to accomplish, she was deliberately impressing our audience with the fact that it was being made privy to great government secrets. Bright girl.

  “You do that,” I said, deadpan.

  Miss Dana Delgado cleared her throat in Washington, a thousand miles to the north. “We recently, very recently, came across some evidence indicating that Dominic Morelos may actually be the mysterious chairman of the Legion’s thirteen-person council.”

  “You mean the guy who calls himself, or is called, El Martillo, The Hammer?”

  “It’s only a possibility, unconfirmed.”

  “An unconfirmed possibility is better than no possibility at all. Any more on Morelos, like a home address?”

  “The last fix we had put him in San Felipe, a small village at the western end of Hawkins Island, the main island of the sovereign nation of Montego. Incidentally, I feel obliged to point out, Mr. Helm, that if Antonio Morelos was Dominic’s young brother, and you’re the one who killed Antonio…”

  “I am.”

  “Then El Martillo, if he is El Martillo, is not going to like you very much. You might check from time to time, as you proceed with this mission, to make perfectly certain who is hunting whom.”

  “The thought had already occurred to me, but thanks anyway, ma’am.”

  “I know, I know, you’re all bulletproof and immortal out there. I apologize for wasting your time with my foolish suggestions. Anything else?”

  “One more problem, but first, you’d better have the details of Antonio’s demise for your hungry computer.” I told her how the shooting had come about, and went on: “After he was shot, I tried to get out of him the name of the woman who was seen outside La Mariposa at the time of the bombing. I figured there was a good chance he’d know something about it, working with them like that; and in any interrogation, it’s better to ask for the name of a specific person. I figured if we got the identity of the bomb lady we could probably work from that to the names of her two companions, and maybe even get a line on those who’d sent the three of them out with the whiz-bang. Anyway, Antonio was reluctant, but just before he died he said something about an angel. A little angel. Can your computer field that one?”

  “Just a minute.” Presently Miss Delgado’s voice returned. “The Morelos file contains a reference to, among a number of other women, an Angelita Johansen. A small blonde girl. One of several attractive tourist-ladies who were privileged to spend a night in Dominic’s hotel room—the Privateer Hotel, Morganville, Montego.”

  “Morganville, for Sir Henry Morgan. Hawkins Island, for Sir John Hawkins. Those old English sea captains got around, although I never read of Hawkins navigating in that area. But, hell, if local legends can put Leif Eriksson on Cape Cod, I guess they can put Sir John Hawkins in Montego.” I frowned thoughtfully; a wasted frown since she couldn’t see it. “But I thought you said Morelos operated out of a place called San Felipe.”

  “Yes, but according to our information he also kept a room in the capital city sixty miles away. Data on Morelos is still coming in, but it seems that he was in the area primarily to observe, and maybe supervise, the progress of the Legion unit of about eighty men training with Heinrich Bultman’s strike force, now numbering about four hundred. However, he’d slip away frequently to Morganville, presumably on CLL business although he often managed to mix it with private pleasure. Usually he went there to meet people arriving by plane.”

  “People like Angelita Johansen?”

  “Not exactly. Most of the ones he met were new recruits for the invasion force. But Señor Morelos’ nights in the Privateer Hotel were seldom spent alone. Apparently, while keeping his hands off the local ladies so as not to arouse hostility among the Montegan natives, he preyed quite successfully on the female tourist traffic. Angelita Johansen came to Morganville by plane, all right, but with an organized tour group. The evening after her arrival, she wandered away from her tour and came into the hotel bar alone, exploring. Morelos zeroed in on her. Our informant states that, from what he could learn without asking too many questions, the contact seemed casual enough. The locals apparently admire Morelos’ sexual prowess; they enjoy watching him stalk his prey of the evening. It seems to be a local spectator sport; there’s even some betting. Apparently the little Johansen looked proper and ladylike enough that quite a bit of money said she’d brush him off; but in the end she succumbed to the Morelos charm like most of his other targets. Typically, in the morning when she rejoined her friends she was rather the worse for wear, noticeably bruised and rumpled, but glowing in a very improper and unladylike fashion. The local consensus was that there was one little gringa schoolteacher—actually she works in an architect’s office—who’d go home feeling that she’d got her money’s worth from the travel agency.”

  “But you say she’s a blonde?” I said, with a glance at Sandra. “Our witness to the bombing states definitely that the perpetrators, as the police like to call them, were neither blonde nor albino.”

  The speaker-phone said, “There are such things as hats and scarves, not to mention wigs.”

  I spoke to Sandra: “What about it, Sandy?”

  The girl hesitated, and shrugged. “It’s certainly possible. I don’t think I’d have missed a hat or scarf; but I really caught only a glimpse of her, and I wouldn’t have noticed if all that dark hair wasn’t for real.”

  “You heard that, Miss Delgado?” I said to the phone. “So Angelita is in the running. You have no other angels, small or large, in your computer?”

  “None at the moment.”

  “Well, she may be our girl. It would be a hell of a coincidence if she wasn’t. Dominic sleeps with her down in Montego, Antonio dies with her name on his lips up here in Florida—assuming he was referring to the same diminutive angel.” I frowned. “Do we have a home address for the lady?”

  “Right down there near you, between Palm Beach and Lauderdale. Pompano Beach. Do you want the street and number?”

  “Please.”

  She gave it, and I said, “Fine. Now drop Angelita.”

  “Drop her?”

  I said, “We’ll make the approach from another angle, and I don’t want her alerted by too many people asking questions about her. Drop Angelita, but keep on digging the Morelos dirt, and let me know if you turn up any more fat worms. Okay?”

  “Instructions noted.”

  I asked, “Anything else I should know?”

  “I have the names of several other people, all probably members of the Legion, two probably members of the Council as well. Do you want them?”

  “Read them off, please, with addresses if any. Somebody here may recognize them.”

  There were a dozen names, both Hispano and Anglo. The Council members, unconfirmed, were an Arthur Galvez and a Howard Koenig. The addresses were all of the reported-seen-in or rumored-to-be-living-at variety. I watched my companions as Miss Delgado read her list, but there were no visible reactions. After the last name, Varck shook his head: negative.

  I said, “No bells rung here, Miss Delgado. What about the information I asked you to get for me about the people involved in the previous explosive incidents attributed to the CLL?”

  “A courier is on his w
ay with that material, fairly complete. It was all in the official records or in the newspapers, no problem. You know where to make contact and pick it up.”

  “Right. I guess that’s it, then. Sorry to bother you at home.”

  “No trouble. But I have a bad feeling about that Dominic, Mr. Helm. Keep looking behind you.”

  Considering the hostile attitude she’d shown me earlier, I was surprised that she’d show so much concern about a lousy field man; but perhaps she felt it would reflect on her professional competence if I went and got myself killed acting on her information.

  “I always do,” I said.

  The line went dead. I pushed the button Philip had shown me, which shut down the speaker and mike and turned the fancy instrument into an ordinary telephone. Sandra came over with the brandy and splashed a little into my empty snifter; she moved on to replenish her father’s.

  Varek stirred. “So you’re poking around in past history, too? Explosive incidents! Bureaucratic double-talk! Why not call a blast a blast?” He sipped his brandy and asked casually, “How many others have you come up with, besides La Mariposa?”

  I said, “Just two so far that were definitely the work of the Caribbean Legion of Liberty, although they’ve claimed a couple of others that we think were set by different crazies. One of the definites was up north in Newport, Rhode Island. The other was down in San Juan. Maybe somebody got too close to their current base down there and had to be taken out. I thought I’d check out both explosions and talk to some of the survivors and see if they can tell me a little more about the gang.” I hesitated and got to my feet. “Well, it’s getting late and I’ve got some thinking to do. I hope you don’t mind my making a couple of calls from the phone in my room. Sandra had better show me the way so I don’t get lost again.”

  10

  The guestroom into which I’d been put was called the Blue Room. It was actually a suite with a large, light bedroom, a small, dark sitting room, and a sizable bathroom with a pale blue tub big enough to swim in. Sometimes you wonder if it’s worth it, being honest; the crooks seem to have more fun, or at least more money. There was elaborately old-fashioned wallpaper that reminded me of some I’d seen in a country house I’d stayed in over in Europe, but that had been old and shabby. This was new and immaculate, with a pattern of pale blue flowers. The bedroom furniture was pale, too, pretty and rather spindly; but Varek’s previous wife, the interior-decorator lady called Barbie, like in doll, had allowed a substantial, adjustable chair to be placed in front of the big color TV that dominated the little sitting room.

  Sandra hit the remote control and watched the picture form on the screen in a satisfactory manner. She checked the sound, okay, and snapped the set off again.

  She said, “If you need anything, that button will get you Maria.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “A man never knows when he’ll need a Maria in the middle of the night.”

  Sandra grinned. “I guess that sentence didn’t come out exactly the way I intended it; but Maria might oblige, at that.” We moved back out into the big bedroom, and she glanced at me curiously. “Matt.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think your sense of direction is quite as bad as you make out. You could have found this room without a guide.”

  I nodded. “I wanted to get you alone so I could ask you a favor. I’m going for the closest explosive incident first. Blast, in your daddy’s terminology. That’s Newport, Rhode Island. I’d like you to come with me.”

  She studied me for a moment. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Well, I could say I was doing it for your safety. Certain people still don’t like you. There’s no reason to think they’ve given up just because they failed this afternoon. I could say that I feel more confident of my ability to keep you alive than of your pop’s.”

  She smiled faintly. “What else could you say, Matt?”

  “That I want them. We all want them, right?” When she nodded, I went on: “At the moment we still don’t have enough information to track them down; we’ve got a better chance at them if we make them come to us. Although they probably know by this time that I’ve been appointed Bloodhound-in-Chief on their trail, they might not make a major effort to eliminate me if I were traveling alone. However, if you were with me the bait should be irresistible.”

  She grimaced. “Sandy, the sacrificial goat. Or just the goat?”

  I said, “I’ll have some good people covering us, but I won’t try to tell you there’s no risk involved.”

  “Risk?” Sandra laughed shortly. “I’ll be running plenty of risk right here, won’t I? I mean, if they’re really going to be persistent about shutting my mouth. And Daddy’s men didn’t look too great protecting me at La Mariposa. I’m not forgetting that a couple of them got themselves killed trying; but I’d have been dead right along with them if it hadn’t been for you. Anyway, I still have to do something about the house in Connecticut, which is right next door to Rhode Island. Old Saybrook is only a short drive from Newport.” She laughed. “All right, you talked me into it.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements and let you know in the morning. Thanks.”

  “Sure.” She started for the door, and stopped, and spoke without looking around. “When I called you the Lord High Executioner…”

  “Yes?”

  “It wasn’t you I was mad at,” she said, and turned to face me. “I think it was me. I’m just so damned confused these days I don’t really know what I think. I hate them, of course I hate them, but the idea of killing seventeen people, any seventeen people… And the number is really up to twenty now, isn’t it? Your seventeen, and Antonio Morelos, and Bernadette and her boyfriend. That’s going to be an awful lot of dead people by the time we’re finished, Matt.”

  I said, “You might keep in mind that the casualty list you just rattled off is a little one-sided. You’re just counting their dead, actual and potential. What about ours?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Six people died in West Palm Beach,” I pointed out. “Two in the Newport blast. Another five down in San Juan, including some small children. That’s thirteen people that we know about, blown up by these loonies just to show how mad they are; and that figure doesn’t include the injured. Who knows how many they’ll kill and maim next time, if we let there be a next time?”

  “I know,” she said. “I know they have to be stopped. That’s why I’m going with you, to help if I can. Just don’t expect a vengeful wildcat at your side. It isn’t as if it would bring Matthew back. If it would, I wouldn’t have any qualms at all, I’d mow them all down personally; but nothing will bring him back. Good night, Matt.”

  Then I was alone. I heard her footsteps recede down the hall, and stop. I heard her open a door and close it behind her. The idea of having her sleeping right down the hall wasn’t quite comfortable; and the fact that it wasn’t bothered me. I mean, she was a good kid, sure, but I wasn’t supposed to be interested in good kids, or even bad ones. Hell, even though she’d been married briefly, the girl was barely out of her teens.

  I drew a long breath and walked over to unpack my suitcase. I threw my pajamas onto the big bed—a four-poster with a canopy, no less—and inspected the weapons I’d drawn in Washington. Varek undoubtedly had people available who could open a locked suitcase without leaving a mark; but I saw no indications that anyone had tampered with the contents.

  I got into the pajamas—tan with brown piping, if it matters—and looked at the bed, but it was still early and I knew I wasn’t relaxed enough yet to sleep; besides there were those phone calls to be made. I reached for the blue phone beside the lamp on the spindly bedside table and thought of Varek’s boys monitoring all calls from the house. To hell with them. Let them listen. No secrets between friends and allies, right?

  I punched the number and got a man’s voice and went through the mandatory identification procedure.

  I said, “This number is now compromised. I’ll u
se the first fallback procedure next time.”

  “Check.”

  I said, “Termination on command: Arthur Galvez, Howard Koenig. Washington has some data; ask for Delgado. Find them, put them under discreet surveillance, see if they lead you to anybody else. Any contacts you spot, pass the information to Delgado. Extra manpower available if needed. Be ready to take them out at any time, but wait for the word. Repeat.”

  The man at the other end of the line, whose code name was Louis, read the instructions back to me and gave the sign-off query. I responded with the affirmative and the line went dead. Then I called another number and went through a similar ID routine with a man using the cover name Trask, who’d been assigned to ride shotgun on this stagecoach run. I told him what I needed and he said he’d get it to me as soon as possible.

  “There’ll be two of us,” I said. “I’ll try to keep us together so you won’t have to split your team to cover us, but if we should separate do the best you can.”

  “I read you, but remember I haven’t got an army to work with. If we have to concentrate on one, who’s got priority?”

  “Cover the girl. I can take care of myself better than she can. They’re more likely to go for her, anyway, given a choice. But, Trask…”

  “What?”

  “When it comes to the main job, nobody’s unexpendable. If you get a good crack at them, take it, no matter what. We don’t play the hostage game with anybody, or for anybody.”

  “Yes, I read the instructions.” His voice was stiff. Nobody had to tell him not to be a sentimental jackass. “Trask out.”

  It was still too early for bed, so I checked out the entertainment center. The chair was fine, very comfortable after I’d figured out the controls. The TV worked perfectly, as Sandra had determined; but aside from a funny, funny sitcom and a totally implausible cop story, there seemed to be nothing on the air but rock-and-roll. Well, it wouldn’t hurt me to know a little more about the younger generation and its taste in music, even though the stuff generally sounds to me like a lot of noise going nowhere; and the slapstick nonsense that usually accompanies it on the screen, supposedly comic, makes a rerun of the Three Stooges look like a Shakespeare festival…