The Retaliators

by Donald Hamilton

  "Something wrong?" I asked.

  She said, with a kind of indignant rush: "Matthew Helm, do you mean to tell me that all that threatening talk—all that menacing stuff about piles of dead bodies and buckets of blood—was just playacting? Do you mean to say you were just bluffing?"

  "I don't mean to say any such thing," I said. "What makes you think so?"

  "You asked Mr. Solana-Ruiz to apologize to your boss because you'd been rude to him. You said it was for... for dramatic effect."

  "Well, sure," I said. She'd played her part well; she deserved an explanation. "Look, Mrs. O, I had two problems. Remember that the telephone line was tapped. First of all, I had to conduct the conversation in such a way as not to get my chief into trouble. I couldn't give the impression that he was in any way an accessory to my treacherous and violent behavior. He had to be the loyal, sensible employer trying to reason with an insulting, disloyal employee who'd flipped his lid, right? We couldn't afford to give Euler ammunition to use against him. To that extent I suppose you could say we were both playacting."

  She hesitated. "Then he doesn't believe that Jack or that girl or you took money for the reasons everybody says? It must be nice to work for somebody who has that much faith in you."

  "Faith in us?" I shrugged. "Or faith in himself. I mean, he picked us, didn't he? My second problem was to make absolutely certain that Euler knew I wasn't bluffing. But the trouble with fanatic humanitarians like Euler is they've got a thing about death; they figure anybody who claims to be ready to die, for anything, has got to be either bluffing or nuts. Otherwise Euler would have thought I didn't mean it and a lot of people would have got shot. Okay?"

  We had dinner in the Mexican mining town of Cananea, which is visible just as far as Douglas, for the same smoky reasons. It was dark by the time we came out of the little restaurant, with sunset just a dim red memory over the mountains to the west, through which we still had to drive. Four hours later, with Clarissa asleep on the rear seat, we reached the Motel Del Camino in Caborca. I yawned, slid down from the high seat, and made my way inside to register. The reservation was for one room with two beds in the name of Señor and Señora Matthew Helm; and Ramón had undoubtedly grinned wickedly as he phoned it in. Well, it could have been worse; he could have specified a double bed,

  I took the key, drove to the door of the unit, and got out to open it; then I opened the rear door of the truck. It had been a hard day, and Mrs. Oscar O'Hearn was sleeping so soundly she didn't really wake up when I eased her out of the vehicle, walked her into the motel room, and set her down on the near bed. When I got back from retrieving her purse and the rolled-up jacket she'd been using as a pillow, and locking up the truck, she was curled up on top of the covers like a large, tired baby.

  It was a neat moral problem. She'd hate me in the morning if I let her spend the night in her clothes since she had no others. On the other hand, she'd hate me in the morning if I presumed to undress her. Since I couldn't win, I took the path of least resistance and just pulled off her shoes and covered her up the way she was. Then I peeled down to my underwear and fell into the other bed; and I hate to admit it—it plays hell with my macho image—but the fact that an attractive adult woman was sleeping less than six feet away didn't interfere with my rest one little bit. I'd had a hard day, too.

  The next thing I knew, there was daylight at the windows and Ramón was knocking at the door.

  ten

  He was sitting at a window table when I came into the motel dining room, a handsome, dark-faced man with smooth, black hair. He was wearing a sharp, dark suit, the cut of which reminded me of Europe, a white silk shirt—or what passes for silk these days—and a gray silk tie. They don't go in for sports clothes much down there when they're on business.

  I sat down facing him and said, "Thanks for the loan of the razor."

  "De nada," he said. "It is yours. A small token of friendship, shall we say? Where is, er, Mrs. Helm?"

  "You bastard," I said, grinning.

  He laughed and shrugged. "I was making it easy for you, amigo. She is a handsome lady. What are we men for but to help each other in such matters?"

  "Thanks a lot," I said, "but at the moment I'm more concerned about other matters you may be able to help me with that don't concern my sex life. Like the guy I'm supposed to be after down here. And the girl agent who's supposed to help me track him down. A little information about the military gent he's been hired to hit wouldn't hurt; and I'd even condescend to listen to the name or names of the person or persons who hired him. And finally, you might tell me why an agent of the Mexican government is allowing an agent of the U.S. government to do his job for him, to wit, protecting a high-ranking Mexican officer from assassination."

  It was a little sudden and a little rough for Mexico, where you can spend half your life working around politely to the subject in which you're really interested. I saw Ramón's eyes narrow; then he laughed.

  "You do get right down to business, Yankee fashion, Matthew."

  "Well, I'd like to get a few things discussed before the lady makes her appearance. Not that I don't trust her, or anything, but she is, after all, just along for the ride."

  "Yes, that is something I think we should talk about, also," Ramón said. He signaled the waitress to take my order. When the girl had gone, he said, "But I will answer your questions first, to the best of my ability. To start with, there has been no sign of Ernemann. He was last reported in the United States. Your chief informed me that he was seen in Washington, D.C., and later in your home town of Santa Fe, New Mexico. I cannot tell you his purpose in visiting those places."

  "You don't have to," I said. "He was putting money into bank accounts that didn't belong to him. Go on."

  "After Santa Fe, he seems to have disappeared. There is no report of his having crossed the border into Mexico, but it is a long border and we do not have the incentive to patrol it carefully that you do. The big smuggling goes the other way. He will surface eventually, of course. When he does you will be notified at once." Ramón paused as if expecting a comment; when I made none, he went on: "Next, I can still tell you nothing about your female agent. She was given a telephone number to call when she reached Mexico; she has not called it. It is my understanding that she speaks fluent Spanish. Let us keep in mind that a Spanish-speaking Virginia Dominguez is going to attract little attention in this Spanish-speaking country if she chooses to remain inconspicuous." He pronounced the name Veerheenya.

  "The question is, why should she choose?" I said. "Why hasn't she checked in according to instructions? Apparently she got out of the U.S. by way of Tijuana before Euler could grab her—maybe even before she knew anybody wanted to grab her. Roger got a warning to me by way of his sister, but we don't know that he managed to get through to Norma. In other words, she may not have been on her guard. That leaves a possibility that the BIS boys got their hands on her somehow and brought her back. Strange things happen in border towns like Tijuana, and unlike some people, she didn't have the Mexican army standing by to cover her getaway."

  It wasn't the most diplomatic suggestion to make to a Mexican official—that a U.S. security team might have invaded Mexican territory for kidnaping purposes—but Ramón merely shrugged.

  "I suppose it is a possibility; but it is not too important, is it, amigo? We do not need this girl. I can supply any men and women we require." When I didn't reply to this sensible, if cold-blooded analysis of the Norma situation, he went on: "As for General Hernando Díaz he is a fairly controversial figure with wide political interests, currently stationed in Baja California. We do not know who has hired his assassination. There are several potential candidates, wealthy men whose interests conflict with those of Díaz."

  "But you're sure Ernemann is coming here and Díaz is his target?"

  "That seems to be confirmed, both by our sources and those of your chief in Washington. And to deal with your final question, which I admit is somewhat embarrassing, I should tell you
that we are having serious problems of unrest in the mountains of the mainland. I cannot go into details, the subject is classified, but I can say that one thing we do not need is the assassination of a prominent political and military figure, even in far-off Baja. A hint of antiestablishment violence elsewhere would give much encouragement to the mainland insurgentes. On the other hand, as I have said, there are those who do not like the general very much and would not mind seeing him dead, whether or not they have actually done anything about it. These people are influential, too. We would rather not antagonize them if we can help it."

  I grinned. "What you're saying is that you'd be real happy not to have to take sides publicly, pro or con Díaz."

  "Precisely." He looked pleased that I understood. "Of course, we cannot permit murder, but it was a great relief to us when we first heard these rumors about Ernemann and started investigating, to discover that someone else was interested in him also. Your agent Salter was recognized. I got in touch with your chief. It was agreed that you Americans should have the honor of disposing of Señor Ernemann, since you wanted him so badly. We would merely supply information and assistance, discreetly."

  "Very neat," I said.

  There was a question I wanted to ask: why did we want Ernemann so badly? Of course, it could simply be a routine vermin hunt—when people make themselves too objectionable, in a violent political way, it's our job to take them out. However, that's generally a one-man operation, and there are generally American interests involved. I still had no idea why Mac considered this touch important enough to assign to it two agents and a backup man. I didn't ask, however; it's never advisable to confess to too much ignorance, particularly in a foreign country. It wouldn't be the first time I'd gone after a guy without knowing why. If my conscience bothered me, I could always soothe it with the thought that, on the record, Mr. Ernemann was a gent who wouldn't really be missed, and I was, after all, promoting good international relations by saving the life of a Mexican general.

  I said, "You seemed to have some reservations about my traveling companion."

  He hesitated. "Let us say that there are some interesting things about this lady that I did not quite realize on our first meeting. You know who she is, of course."

  "I think I know," I said. "Tell me what you know."

  "I am told she is the sister of an American agent, now dead. But she is also the wife of a certain Mr. Oscar O'Hearn, is that correct?"

  "So she says. I haven't seen the marriage license, so I can't vouch for the legality of the union, but it says Clarissa Salter O'Hearn on her car registration." I frowned, watching him. "Wait a minute! You're not going to tell me that the Arizona department store tycoon is also involved in this mess—"

  Ramón said, "It so happens, friend Matthew, that Mr. Oscar Francis O'Hearn is a very good friend—lately a constant fishing companion—of General Hernando Díaz. As a matter of fact they are together here in Mexico at this moment. The general is on leave and they are staying at Bahia de los Angeles on the western shore of the Sea of Cortez or, if you prefer, the Gulf of California."

  "Fishing?" I asked.

  Ramón smiled thinly. "Well, you know how some anglers are, amigo. They have been doing considerable drinking, also, and in the evenings they have, from time to time, enjoyed the company of some attractive señoritas supplied by General Díaz. Since it is my duty to see that his life is preserved, it distresses me to have to say that I do not think the general is a very nice man. I am afraid that Señor O'Hearn is not a nice man, either. In fact I think he is what you would call an Ugly American."

  I said, "You've got it wrong, Ramón. In the book, the ugly American was the good guy, the crude, craggy gent who was willing to get his hands dirty to help the native people. The handsome American, the striped-pants smoothie, was the bad guy."

  After I'd said it, I decided I sounded a bit like Mac, stuffily correcting me about Frankenstein, but Ramón just grinned.

  "Perhaps I should read the book. In the meantime, Díaz and O'Hearn are in Bahia de los Angeles complaining loudly about the fishing; it has not been very satisfactory this year so far north in the Gulf. They have been discussing the advisability of flying south to Mulege—O'Hearn has his private plane and pilot along—or maybe farther south to Loreto, or even clear down to Cabo San Lucas where the marlin are said to be running well."

  "In other words," I said, "if Ernemann has any local intelligence system at all working for him, and he's bound to have, he shouldn't have much trouble zeroing in on his conspicuous and loudmouthed target whenever he's ready. It would be nice if you had some idea where the hell this hired gun is hiding and when we can expect him."

  Ramón said, rather stiffly: "We are working as hard as we can, Matthew. He has just dropped out of sight, temporarily, I am sure. When we learn something, you will be informed at once."

  "Sure," I said, "but that may be too late for your precious, boozing, wenching General Díaz. In the absence of any information, I think our best bet—our only bet, in fact—is to cover the general and wait for Ernemann to come to us. Fortunately, I know a little about saltwater fishing; and I suppose you can scrounge me up enough tackle so I can hang around playing angler without arousing anybody's suspicions."

  "It can be arranged." Ramón's voice was still remote and formal; they insult easily and deeply down there. "Is there anything else you require?"

  "Yes, a weapon," I said. "Ernemann's a chopper freak—I use the term the good old-fashioned Al Capone way which did not refer to helicopters. Any kind of automatic artillery is supposed to turn him on, if I remember the dossier right. I'd better not try to tackle him with just a .38 Special."

  "I may be able to provide a submachine gun of some kind. Of course, you will have to keep it well hidden; such weapons are highly illegal in this country."

  "Or any country." I shook my head. "No. I try never to play another man's game. Let him have his squirt-guns. I'll take a scope-sighted hunting rifle and the proper legal permits. Let's make it a .270 if you can find one. It's a bit old-fashioned, but I've got a tender shoulder at the moment. The old .270 doesn't kick and bellow like the newfangled Magnums, but it'll reach out just as far and hit almost as hard. Tell your armorer a 4X scope is big enough, and I want the fast 130-grain load, not the heavy 150s. I'm not hunting grizzly bear." I frowned thoughtfully. "To go back a bit, what the hell is O'Hearn trying to promote with this general of yours, anyway? Maybe Díaz supplies the girls; but you say it's O'Hearn's plane, and something tells me the bills go on the expense account of O'Hearn, Inc., or one of its subsidiaries. At least that's the way it usually works when rich guys like O'Hearn start palling around with the military, or vice versa. You said Díaz had wide political interests. Could some of them be O'Hearn interests?"

  Ramón didn't speak at once. At last he said, "I am sorry, amigo. The man is an officer in the service of my country. I do not think I had better answer that question."

  I looked at him. "I guess you just answered it. And warned me about Mrs. O'Hearn. It does make one wonder, doesn't it, when the conniving millionaire's handsome young wife stumbles into the case from a totally unexpected direction. The question is, is the lady playing her husband's game, whatever it is, or does she have some fish of her own in the skillet? Or is she, after all, just an innocent girl accidentally involved in dark international intrigues because she was nice enough to run an errand for her brother?"

  Ramón said, "You know better than I do how eager she was to accompany you."

  "Well, I thought it was my idea at the start," I said. "But I did offer her an out at the border and she didn't take it. Okay, I'll keep my eyes open. Right now the lady in question is, presumably, just taking a shower and worrying about the crease, or lack of it, in her pants."

  Ramón laughed, relaxing. "If they did not insist on wearing male trousers, they would not be confronted by these terrible masculine problems, would they?"

  I grinned. "A sexist after my own heart! Let's you and me set u
p a new country, Ramón—there's plenty of real estate in this part of the world nobody'd miss—a country in which the girls dress like girls and the boys like boys. It would be nice to be able to tell the difference at a glance, like in the good old days, wouldn't... What's the matter?"

  His face had hardened abruptly. His eyes had narrowed, studying me coldly across the table. When he spoke, his voice was harsh.

  "What have you heard?"

  "Heard?" I frowned, and spoke very carefully: "I made a joke, Ramón. Maybe it wasn't a very good joke, but—"

  He drew a long breath. "I am sorry, amigo. I thought—"

  "What?"

  He hesitated, and said, "There are some things I am not allowed to tell you; things of greater importance than the financial affairs of a certain general. Please do not ask.... Ah, there is Señora O'Hearn."

  We got up as Clarissa approached, and after discussing our itinerary briefly we didn't talk about much except the fact that you can't get fresh orange juice in restaurants in Texas or Florida where they grow the fruit, or in any but the fanciest establishments in Los Angeles or New York; but in a remote roadside motel in obscure Caborca, Sonora, Mexico, they serve you delicious, fresh-squeezed juice as a matter of course....

  eleven

  From Caborca, the highway swings back up close to the border and follows it for a couple of hundred miles and some change. It passes just north of the Gran Desierto at the head of the Gulf of California—a real, sandy, Sahara-type desert, not just the ordinary southwestern cactus-and-greasewood plains. It crosses the Colorado River on a toll bridge (eight pesos) and a little farther west it bypasses most of the city of Mexicali if you're sharp enough to catch the proper turns. Then it climbs out of the lowlands and up into the mountainous base of the Baja California peninsula by an endless series of switchbacks that'll make you bless your power steering if you've got it (I had). Finally, it runs straight west to Tijuana, but we didn't stay with it quite that far. At the little town of Tecate, still up in the high country, we took the southwest cutoff that lowered us by easy stages to the sizable city of Ensenada, on the Pacific sixty miles down the coast.