The Poisoners mh-13

by Donald Hamilton

  "Darling," she said stiffly, "darling, you're being very objectionable…

  "Here's the drug kit," I said, ignoring her protest. "In ten minutes, I hope, you can come up and do your stuff just like before."

  The final stalk was no great problem. Big town characters, accustomed to tuning out the roar of traffic and the bleat of canned music, have generally forgotten how to listen, and the two men on the crest were no exception. I got within twenty-five yards of them without eliciting the smallest sign of uneasiness. Then I aimed the Flash Gordon contraption at Sapio, since he was the man with the chopper, and switched on the beam.

  XXIII

  The fierce little ray of concentrated light caught Sapio's attention, all right, even from behind. I saw him start to turn his head and stop, and reach for the submachine gun instead. I stopped that by pressing the safety of the Remington forward more sharply than necessary, making a tiny but unmistakable click.

  The hooded, sharply focused light had not disturbed Tillery, off to one side, but the sound brought his head around quickly.

  "Jake, what the hell…

  "Jake's taking a nap," I said. "So are your other two boys, Tillery."

  "Helm? What are you doing here? What do you want?"

  "I want your hand to stop moving, amigo. I think Mr. Sapio does, too. I don't think he really yearns for a thirty-caliber slug through his liver."

  "Cut it out, Tillery."

  "Yes, Mr. Sapio."

  There was a faint clatter of dislodged pebbles nearby. I stepped back into the gloom of a low evergreen, keeping the beam steady, but it was only the girl in her light clothes and big dark hat, rather breathless.

  "Matt?"

  "Right here," I said. "No, don't look at this light, it's pretty bright. Don't get between us. Walk around, real careful, and take care of them… Oh, just a minute. Sapio, you seem to be the man with the final authority here. What's your full name?"

  "Manuel Sapio. Why?"

  The Spanish first name didn't really belong in the company he kept-the Mafia originated in a different part of southern Europe-but his national heritage was his problem, not mine.

  "I want you to listen hard, Manuel Sapio," I said. "I know you're a big, dangerous man, and I know you're already thinking what you're going to do to us by way of retaliation. I also know that when you get over your mad, you'll be too smart to try for me-"

  "You hope!"

  "I don't just hope," I said. "I know. Your superiors in the corporation would amputate your manhood with a dull knife if you started a private feud with the U.S. Government. But it may occur to you to take it out on Miss Prince. I've got some advice for you: don't do it. And don't have Tillery or anybody else do it for you. I'm holding you personally responsible for Miss Prince's health and safety, Sapio. Anything that happens to her, no matter who does it, happens to you. If she gets hit by a car, you'll have a bad accident. If she catches pneumonia and dies, you may as well start coughing, because you'll go next. Even if she dies in childbirth, I'll figure out some way to make it happen to you. Do you read me?" I waited briefly. He didn't speak. I said, "Okay, Bobbie. Fix them up."

  Five minutes later I was lying on the crest with the big, seven-power binoculars at my eyes and the Thompson under my elbow-I'd set aside the rifle as less suited to the immediate situation, and also less impressive, than the chopper. There were other reasons for making the trade, but I didn't let myself think about them. Not that I believe in telepathy, really; but I've found it best, when being tricky, to put entirely out of my mind just how tricky I'm being. Why take a chance of tipping off the opposition, telepathically or otherwise?

  There's no optical viewing instrument that, by itself, will put light where there isn't any-there are some electronic see-in-the-dark systems, but that's another story. Where there's some illumination, however, a good pair of night glasses will brighten things up remarkably; and here I had a bit of moonlight to work with. I could see down there quite well.

  I checked first on the men by the jeep, except that now there was only one man standing at the far side of the beach. The other man was gone, and so was the vehicle. I listened for a moment trying to locate it by sound, but I could hear only the murmur of the wind and the angry buzzing of the outboard motor in the bay. I focused on the lone, remaining man and saw that, as I had guessed, he was indubitably Mr. Soo, not much changed from the first time I'd seen him, or the last, except for the unfamiliar moustache. Well, I hadn't really known him long enough for him to age perceptibly, although I'd done my best to hasten the process.

  Having identified him, I swung the glasses to the bulky cylindrical object that was now being floated ashore on the pontoon raft behind the straining, racketing little outboard dinghy. Here, however, the binoculars were no help to me. The thing just looked like a big metal tank seven times closer, that was all. The way the seams ran hinted that the slightly rounded caps at the ends might be removable, but what would be revealed when they were removed, I still had no idea.

  Bobbie Prince stirred beside me. "Matt?" she whispered. "Will you really go after Sapio if… if he has me killed."

  "Hell, no," I said. "Why waste time and effort on something that won't bring you back to life? Anyway, my boss doesn't like private vendettas, either; we're supposed to operate strictly and solely in the national interest. If the bluff doesn't work, I'll come put some flowers on your grave, that's all. But I did the best I could for you, didn't I?"

  "You were very menacing and convincing. Even if it doesn't work, thanks for a good try." After a moment, she asked, "Can you make out anything down there?"

  "A little," I said. "I recognize the gent standing across the way looking administrative. He's a fairly high-powered Chinese agent specializing in scientific espionage and sabotage. There was another guy with him earlier I'm fairly sure was Willy Hansen, but he's gone off somewhere in his jeep. I wish I knew where. I don't like having him running loose; and I've got an idea about Willy I'd like to check out. And I wish I knew what Mr. Soo was doing, tied up with a bunch of dope peddlers."

  "Well, they produce a lot of drugs in China, Matt. It's practically the home of opium, isn't it?"

  I glanced at her. "That's a thought," I said. "Maybe we've got this smuggling operation figured out all wrong, or my friend Charlie has. But if Mr. Soo is transporting any drugs from that far away-presumably with the consent and assistance of his government-it would be the concentrated heroin, wouldn't it? He'd hardly go to the trouble of shipping a lot of inert waste material halfway around the world when he's undoubtedly got access to refining facilities back home. But in that case, if Warfel's arranging to obtain the pure stuff from the Chinese, I can't see why he'd bother to set up a refining laboratory of his own here in Mexico. Unless-"

  "Unless what, darling?"

  "Unless that Bernardo trailer-lab is just a decoy to make our drug people think they're dealing with Mexican heroin-to keep them from guessing where it's really coming from." I grimaced. "My badge-bearing girlfriend is going to be very unhappy with me if I've steered her onto a phony setup. But what about that crazy thing they're towing ashore? I don't know a great deal about dope, although I'm learning fast, but if that's a load of horse in the large economy carton, I'll eat it raft and all. Again, like the truck, it's just too damn big. There aren't that many poppies in all of China."

  Bobbie didn't speak; instead she reached out her hand for the binoculars, and I gave them to her. We lay there and watched them beach the raft. Then they lowered a ramp from the rear of the van and ran out a cable from a winch somewhere inside. When they had the cylinder hooked up properly, they started winching it up the ramp with several men steadying it on either side.

  "I wish to hell somebody'd tell me what that thing is!" I said irritably at last.

  "Are you trying to kid me, darling? Don't you really know?"

  I glanced sharply at my blond companion. She'd lowered the glasses and turned her head to smile at me in an odd, speculative way. Something move
d behind me, but I pretended not to hear it.

  I said, "I haven't any idea, Bobbie. Have you?"

  She said calmly, "Of course. That is, I don't know how it works, exactly, but I know it's a Sorenson Catalytic Generator, the only one in existence at present. We've been running some tests on it… Please don't move darling!" Her voice sharpened slightly. "The man behind you will shoot if you move at all. Don't even think of using that machine-gun. Please!"

  I was aware of the Buck Rogers beam that was suddenly focused right between my shoulder blades. Well, as I'd already learned, it was a tempting weapon if you needed to get the drop on a man at night: he'd certainly know when he was covered.

  I said sadly, "Roberta, I am shocked and surprised. You seemed like such a nice girl!"

  She ignored that, and went on: "We thought you must know about the generator. After all, we know you've had your girlfriend, as you call her, checking on Dr. Sorenson for you. What led you to him?"

  "A piece in the newspaper and an itch at the back of my neck," I said. "We secret-agent types are intuitive as hell."

  "I'm not sure I believe that answer, but I won't worry about it now. Mr. Soo, as you call him, will question you later. Now, if you'd just roll up your sleeve…" I saw the gleam of my own hypodermic in her hand.

  I didn't move at once. There were still things I wanted to find out while she was in a talkative mood.

  "Is that Willy behind me?" I asked.

  "No, but he's coming. You can hear his jeep climbing the hill. I'd rather have you asleep when he arrives, Matt. He's a rather violent man, Willy is, and I don't want to give him any excuse for killing you."

  "A rather violent man called Nicholas," I said.

  "So you know."

  "I guessed. He's been playing the humble, stupid chauffeur and errand boy for years, and he's got the face for it, but he's the real Nicholas, isn't he? He just carefully sets up somebody else, male or female, as the current big shot-somebody like Beverly Blame, if anything goes wrong, the figurehead takes the rap and swallows the cyanide, and Willy's just the dumb assistant who was lucky enough to get away."

  "You've got it all figured out, haven't you, Helm?"

  That was not Bobbie talking. It was a man's voice from the darkness beyond the intense light source: the harsh voice of Willi Keim, alias Willy Hansen, alias Nicholas-Santa Claus to us. I didn't answer him because he didn't wait for an answer. He went on, now speaking to the girl beside me:

  "Did he do a good job for us, Liebchen?"

  "I'm not your Liebchen," Bobbie said, "and he did a very good job. There are two of them back where the road crosses that dry riverbed, and two more under those bushes to your left. The last one, Jake, the trigger-man, is down the ridge a little ways. All sound asleep, you don't have to worry about-"

  Without turning my head to look, I was kind of aware that Willy had turned away. There was a sudden spurt of flame at the edge of my vision, and a painfully loud crash of sound: obviously Willy-Nicholas was still hooked on his heavy Magnum hardware. Only a.44 could make that much noise. A moment later the fireworks were repeated. Bobbie kind of flinched, beside me. She started to speak angrily, but checked herself, as Willy turned back to us.

  "Now, I don't have to worry about those two," he said. "I've already settled the two in the wash. I'll take care of the last one in a minute. I never did like Jake; he was always throwing his weight around when we were working together. I had to take it then; I don't have to take it now. I'm just sorry he's doped so he can't see it coming… But first I want a word with Mr. Helm, here."

  "Not with that oversized revolver!" There was a snap to Bobbie's voice. "The Chinaman wants him alive and talking."

  "I won't hurt his singing voice a bit." A heavy boot caught me in the hip. "I've just been wanting to meet Mr. Helm very badly, ever since the last time he stuck his long nose into my business."

  He kicked me in the ribs. There was nothing to do but lie there; I knew he was hoping for a sudden move on my part that would give him an excuse to blow my brains out. Then Bobbie snatched the Thompson and aimed it upwards.

  "Get out of here!" she snapped. "Go shoot somebody, or something!"

  "All right, but he's mine when the Chinaman gets through with him!"

  I heard Willy turn and stamp away down the ridge. Bobbie drew a long breath and lowered the submachine gun.

  "How do you work this thing, anyway?" she asked of nobody in particular. "Are you all right, Matt?"

  "Sure, I'm great," I said. "What's eating him?"

  "Don't you know? You spoiled a big assignment for him-something right here in Mexico, I understand-and he didn't dare go home and neither did the girl you knew as Beverly. They weren't exactly going to be made heroes of the Soviet Union on their return to Moscow, if you know what I mean. So they took employment elsewhere, but our friend has a low opinion of Orientals and feels humiliated, working for one. He can't forget that he was a big shot called Nicholas until you came along."

  I said, "You don't seem to share his opinion of Orientals."

  She laughed. "Darling, I was born over there. I understand the Chinese a lot better than I understand you. Now, please roll up your sleeve…"

  I rolled it up, and felt the sting of the needle. It was the first time I'd had the stuff used on me. It wasn't bad. As I started drifting off, I heard the big revolver crash once more, farther down the rim. It seemed as if Willy had gone and spoiled my funny joke about five tough syndicate soldiers peacefully sleeping on the job. Well, maybe it hadn't been so funny, after all.

  XXIV

  I awoke in a noisy, unsteady place that, after a little, I identified as the rear of a big van going down a paved highway at a good clip. There was a kind of erratic booming sound, the source of which I couldn't determine until I opened my eyes.

  Then I saw that the tanklike mystery object I'd seen brought ashore was now looming above me, almost filling the cavernous space that was dimly lighted by a weak yellow bulb up forward. The jolting of the truck was causing the great metal cylinder to reverberate hollowly. I hoped they had it properly lashed and wedged into place so it wouldn't shift my way. It didn't leave too much room as it was.

  I tried to sit up and discovered that my hands and feet were tied. My gun and knife were missing, of course; in fact, my pockets seemed to be quite empty. My hip was sore; and breathing now hurt me, not only in front where I'd been socked earlier in the day, but also at the side where I'd been kicked more recently, but I didn't feel too badly about that. I mean, I had my orders. Mac had indicated that we'd lost too many good men and women to Nicholas, and that something permanent ought to be done about him, by me. That being the case, it would have been awkward if he'd turned out to be a sweet, gentle, lovable sort of guy I couldn't bear to harm.

  "How are you feeling, darling?"

  I turned my head and there she was, my blonde betrayer, looking even more like a lady hippie with her long hair mussed and her white jeans smudged by the night's adventures. Not that it mattered. If I'd wanted an immaculate vision of radiant loveliness I could have turned on the TV, if I'd had a TV. At the moment, I much preferred a tousle-headed human being in grubby pants. As a matter of fact, a great deal-including my life-might depend at least in part on just how human this girl would turn out to be.

  "Are you all right?" Bobbie helped me to a sitting position. "That's a potent injection you carry. You've been asleep for six hours."

  "It works better, I guess, when the victim hasn't been to bed for a couple of days."

  She made a face at me. "That wasn't a very nice thing to say! Whose bed haven't you been in for a couple of days? I seem to remember your indulging in a nice little nap in mine, quite recently, after… after some preliminary exercise. Well, if you're going to be so rude and forgetful, I'll just put you right back to sleep." She took my little case from her shirt pocket and opened it. "I'm supposed to keep you under. The Chinaman seems to have a lot of respect for you. He doesn't trust you awake, even tied and g
uarded."

  I said, "The Chinaman. They don't call him that back in China, surely."

  "No, and they don't call him Mr. Soo, either, and it's none of your business, anyway."

  "Where is he? Where is everybody? He had a small army working for him at Bahia San Agustin."

  "If what you're trying to find out is whether or not we're alone in here," Bobbie said dryly, "the answer is that we aren't. There are three men over on the other side of the generator; and three more up in the cab, so even if you overpower me, you've got your work cut out for you. The rest are riding in the jeep and your station wagon. They left Tillery's Chrysler behind because the tires were too soft-anyway, it was too closely associated with a lot of dead bodies that might be found, prematurely, by the Mexican authorities."

  "And where are we?"

  Bobbie hesitated, and shrugged. "I don't suppose it matters if I tell you. I think we crossed the border back into the U.S. a little while ago, using some kind of a cross-country smuggling route known to Warfel's men. At least the going was slow and rough for a couple of hours. You were lucky to be asleep. Now that's enough questions. Just lie down again like a good boy and let me squirt you with some more of this nice sleepy-stuff."

  "Just one more question," I said. "What the hell is this overgrown stovepipe that's threatening to squash us?"

  Bobbie frowned at me. "Don't you really know?"

  "I said 1 didn't. You said it was the Sorenson Catalytic Generator. What does it generate?"

  She said, "Don't be silly. It generates catalysts, naturally."

  "Oh, naturally!" I said. "Excuse me for asking! What kind of catalysts… Wait a minute!" I stared up at the metallic flank of the cylindrical object that bulged out over us as we sat with our backs against the side of the truck. I noted that, while the convex cap at the rear was clean, the cylinder itself had a smoked, scorched look at that end, kind of like a jet engine exhaust. Apparently it had been subjected to fairly high temperatures. I said thoughtfully, "Sorenson was interested in air pollution, wasn't he? That's how he came to be an anti-auto nut. Do you mean to tell me he discovered something…