The Threateners

by Donald Hamilton

  My light seersucker suit, although damaged and no longer immaculate, wasn’t the best uniform for night fighting, and taking off the jacket would only make things worse since my shirt was white; well, I’d just have to be careful and pick good cover. I watched them for a little and spotted one who was either more eager than the rest or had found easier going; he was well in the lead. I set a course to intercept, moving cautiously from rock to rock until I was in the right position.

  Waiting for him to come to me, I heard a shout as somebody found the body I’d laid out for them. My man was looking that way, over his shoulder, trying to learn what was going on down there, when he came past me. Crouching low, I saw a leg appear and chopped with the machete. He gave a wild howl and dropped to one knee, reaching down for the place that hurt.

  “Ah, Dios, Dios!”

  He was in a perfect position, and I rose and swung the heavy blade with all my strength, two-handed, and almost made it at last. Well, those old boys with their big axes often had a bit of trouble doing a clean and total job, even with the neck resting on a block; that’s why the guillotine was invented. There was a lot of blood, of course, all of it in fact, as I cut the object free and set it on a high rock nearby. Crude and nasty, I admit, but you can’t afford to be fastidious with a whole religion chasing you.

  They were coming my way now, drawn by the screams; but I’d heard a voice I’d recognized, taking charge down there behind me, and I had the answer now. It was an obvious answer, the first thought of every outnumbered clown in trouble, but that didn’t obscure the fact that it often worked and I didn’t have a great deal of choice. Instead of fleeing the oncoming hordes, I crawled toward them and found myself a good spot a little aside from the direct line between them and the object so clearly silhouetted on its rock. Soon the first ones were stumbling past me blind and gathering to stare up at the exhibit, jabbering angrily in Spanish. I gathered that the name had been Miguel, and that whatever he’d been alive, he was an irreplaceable treasure dead. But nobody seemed eager to pick up his head and return it respectfully to his body.

  One of them spotted movement above, perhaps Ruth, perhaps just a leaf in the breeze, and they charged off in pursuit. More of them came past, paid their respects to the head, and chased after the rest. At last the lean, black-clad figure of Palomino moved past me, but a little too far away, with too many men close to him. I could have tried it, but I knew he’d stop at the head, and he did. He gave a command, and it was taken down and carried away with the body. He gave additional commands that organized a skirmish line across the mountainside. He moved aside to study the situation above, stopping only ten feet away from me. A moment later I had the pistol in his back.

  It’s not the recommended way of dealing with a man trained as we are—you don’t want to get that close—but these were the folks who left guns all over the floor, so I thought I was safe in assuming that he didn’t know the firearms tricks any more than I knew how to work his lousy scarf.

  “Helm?” His voice was soft.

  “Who else?”

  “If you shoot me, they will kill you.”

  “If I don’t shoot you, they’ll kill me. Unless you tell them not to.”

  “What reason have I to do that?” he asked calmly.

  “I could say your life, but let’s assume that we’re both brave men who don’t fear death. But I think, if you keep me alive, you’ll find me very useful. . . . Quick now, send them off before they figure out what’s going on!”

  Three or four men, coming up, had realized that something was wrong although they couldn’t tell exactly what in the dark. They were moving toward us uncertainly.

  "Jefe?" one said questioningly.

  “Go with the others.” Palomino gestured up the slope. ‘‘Join the line. You should be no more than three meters from the next man.” At least I thought that was the appropriate translation.

  “Sí, jefe.”

  The group went on. I said, “Well, they’re still taking your orders, but for how long with the Old One still alive and kicking and nobody willing to lay a hand on him? Seems to me your takeover is in serious trouble, amigo.”

  He drew a long breath. “I was certain that the foolish gringo woman would shoot. The shot was to be the signal, as you saw, and the gun did discharge, even if accidentally. But a proper Spanish widow, avenging her husband, would have emptied the whole magazine into the body and spat on the body.”

  “And if Ruth didn’t shoot, or missed, you were ready to do the job and blame it on her. Only, when the time came, you couldn’t do it. The old loyalty was too strong.”

  “Loyalty!” He spat out the word. “What kind of loyalty is it that will sacrifice a man whose whole adult life has been spent in faithful service—sacrifice him for a small mistake, easily corrected.” He drew another long, ragged breath. “No. You saw. I could not shoot, either, any more than that sentimental woman. And these men, my Compañeros, they take my orders here, at least for the moment, but I cannot order that because they would not obey, could not obey. He has been our leader too long. He is the true high priest who has presided at all our ceremonies and interpreted all our mysteries. I thought I could do it, but I was incapable, as you saw. There is no man here who can kill El Viejo.”

  “You’re wrong, there is one man, if you’re willing to deal,” I said.

  Chapter 30

  The rooms behind the kitchen had, I suppose, originally functioned as servants’ quarters; but Vasquez had apparently chosen to make them his private suite. I couldn’t quite understand the reason for his choice at first, not until I realized that the house was level here, allowing the wheelchair a clear shot into the dining room and even to the front door, whereas the bedroom wing of the house kind of straggled down the mountainside with a step here and a couple of steps there. I once had to serve behind a wheelchair in the line of duty, not to mention having occupied one occasionally after getting myself damaged, and I remembered how all the casual little stairsteps that architects love to stick into totally unnecessary places had suddenly grown into major obstacles.

  There was a man stationed at the door. Palomino waved him away and spoke to me.

  “Be careful of Bo, he is very strong and dangerous.”

  “Thanks, I’ve seen him in action, remember?”

  “I will wait outside.” He smiled thinly. “It is all right, I will keep my word. This time. But you drive a hard bargain. I was really looking forward to enjoying the blond muchacha—the other blond muchacha.” He made a little bow of apology toward Ruth, standing beside me. “And I fail to understand why you must have the man who once ordered you killed. He is a little battered, but he would have served very well at one of our forthcoming ceremonies in which a young man who is being initiated will prove his skill with la bufonda.”

  “That’s the scarf?” I asked. “It’s phansi in Hindustani, I believe, and the Indian sect employing it was first known as the Phansigars, meaning stranglers. Then of course there were the Dacoits and the Thuggees. I read up on it a little. ” I was just talking casually to keep him from realizing that my bargaining position was really pretty weak. It occurred to me that the rites in which the novices of the Compañeros de la Hoja proved their neck-breaking abilities might teach me what was wrong with my own scarf technique, but it didn’t seem advisable to ask for a guest card. I said, “It’s better for you this way. No more wandering Americanos disappearing in the wildernesses of South America; no dead Yankee agents to upset our government, very bad for business. Señor Vasquez had the right idea.”

  Palomino gave me his limited smile again. “Yes, I am certain that you have my welfare much at heart. But you speak sensibly. Blood was spilled, and my people, primed for violent action, went out of control, but it is just as well they did not succeed in destroying the hated gringos as they wished. I will abide by our deal.” He glanced again toward Ruth. “Do you come with me, señora?”

  “She stays here,” I said. “I need her to hold the dog.�
��

  “Very well. I go so my people can see that, whatever happens, the blood is not on my hands.”

  He strode off, and the door closed at the end of the corridor. Ruth was glaring at me.

  “Hold the dog? Have you lost your mind?”

  I said, “It’s just a very nice Chesapeake pup, and it never killed anybody. It’s not the Hound of the Baskervilles, and it’s time you stopped having nightmares about it.”

  She said angrily, “I’m scratched and bruised and dirty, and my only good dress is in rags; and you want me to undergo amateur therapy!"

  I’d had to climb up the mountain to find her—she wouldn’t have revealed her location to anybody else—and help her out of the little cave in which she’d gone to cover, hiding herself quite well, with her knife ready. But she’d broken down a bit when she realized that it was over and had clung to me tightly.

  However, I no longer seemed to be one of her favorite people.

  She spoke abruptly, after a brief silence: “Oh, nevermind the dog, I’ll hold the damn dog. But do you realize what you’re doing? All you’re doing is turning Vasquez’s whole gigantic enterprise, that Mark died fighting against, over to another, younger man, the man who . . . who really killed him!”

  I said, “Hell, if you want a crack at Palomino, I’ll lend you the gun again. Be my guest.”

  She licked her lips. “That’s not fair! You know it’s something I just can’t do to anybody. You saw. . . . Well, maybe if somebody’s actually trying to kill me, or hurt my children, but not. . . not in cold blood. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

  I said, “Well, it’s your grudge; it’s not my grudge. And I’m not here to solve Ackerman’s problems, either. Drugs are his concern, not mine. Maybe he’ll be happy to learn that Palomino has no intention whatever of burying America in a flood of cheap cocaine; he plans to keep right on charging whatever the traffic will bear. Whether that’s good or bad is up to the drug experts, but actually it’s Palomino’s real motive: he couldn’t bear to think of all those millions going down the drain just so Vasquez could take revenge on a whole nation for his boy’s death. The other business was just the trigger that finally set Palomino off.”

  Ruth was studying me closely. “Matt, what is your concern if it isn’t revenge and it isn’t drugs? What are you really here for?”

  “To keep a certain lady alive,” I said. “Those were my official instructions. Of course, in our outfit, a lot of instructions aren’t even given unofficially. It’s simply taken for granted that we understand what’s expected of us.”

  “And what is expected of you, and how do you expect to accomplish it standing out here in the hall talking to me? Talking rather loudly, I notice.”

  I said, “Hell, I’m just waiting for an invitation. . . . Ah, I think it’s about to be delivered.”

  Somebody rapped on the inside of the door. “Senor Helm. Are you ... are you lonely?”

  I had heard the voice before, bellowing in angry Spanish during the battle in the dining room. I saw no reason to educate Bo to the difference between "alone" and "lonely."

  I said, “There is a lady with me.”

  There was a brief consultation on the other side of the door; then Bo said, “It is permitted that you enter with the lady.”

  The door opened. I let Ruth walk in ahead of me, followed her in, and turned and shot Bo twice in the head as he was locking the door behind us. The noise, as always indoors, was tremendous, leaving my ears ringing. The big man fell facedown and didn’t move. A trickle of blood ran across the floor that here, as in the dining room, was covered with rather crude tiles, probably of local manufacture, the kind that artsy gringos will travel miles to find and pay fancy prices for. Covering Vasquez, I moved to the door and checked to make sure it was securely locked.

  “Bravo, no!”

  The curly-coated brown dog had shifted uneasily beside the wheelchair, but Vasquez’s command checked him before he could move. Ruth, white-faced, was staring at the dead man.

  I said, “The leash is in his right-hand hip pocket. Get it, and go get the dog. Walk up to him slowly, speak to him— good Bravo, good dog Bravo—let him sniff your hand, and snap on the leash, and lead him away from the wheelchair. Okay?”

  “Matt, I. . . What in the world do you think you’re—”

  I said, “For Christ’s sake, Ruth, go get the flicking dog before he gets all worked up and I have to shoot him!"

  Then everything waited while she approached the body gingerly, pulled out the leash, and started toward the wheelchair.

  “Not that way!” I snapped. “Don’t get between us. Come around behind me.”

  Vasquez and I watched her approach Bravo cautiously and hold out a nervous hand. “Good Bravo, good doggie.”

  I said, “Stroke his head a little. Okay, now the leash. You’re doing fine. Now give a little jerk to die leash and come this way. Great. Stop right there. I want you to hear what this is all about, although I can’t understand why it’s such a mystery to everybody. Mr. Vasquez, do you have some questions?”

  It was a monastic white room with heavy dark furniture rather like the supposedly ethnic stuff that had come with the little house I’d bought in Santa Fe. There were none of the religious objects you usually see down there, Christs and crucifixes and gold-framed pictures of the Virgin Mary. Vasquez had his own religion, and it wasn’t Catholicism. He had watched the whole performance without expression; I’d have hated to play poker with the old guy. Now he glanced toward the body by the door.

  “I suppose that was necessary.”

  “Yes,” I said. “If I didn’t take care of him before, I’d have to deal with him afterward.”

  “Afterward. I see.” Vasquez sighed. “I thought we had agreed that none of you had reason to—”

  “No. Where I was concerned, we didn’t agree to that at all. We just agreed that I had no personal reason.”

  “I see. ” After a moment he went on scornfully: “So you are working for the drug enforcement people just like your friend Mr. Ackerman. Anticipating that he would prove unable to touch me legally, they sent a government assassin to deal with me when he failed. You.”

  I said irritably, “This is the damnedest case: nobody who’s involved seems capable of keeping his, or her, eyes on the ball!”

  “The ball? I fail to understand—”

  I said, “As far as I’m concerned, as far as my organization is concerned, Mr. Vasquez, you can peddle your shit until hell freezes over. We disapprove, we think you’re a terrible man, but your business is not our business. As Roger Ackerman would be the first to point out, he’s paid to worry about drugs and so is a whole army of dedicated government employees; but that’s not what we’re paid for.”

  Ruth spoke, beside me: “What are you paid for, Matt? I asked you in the hall just now, but you just talked around it.”

  I said, “We’re the counterassassins, baby. When somebody’s so big and tough and deadly that nobody else can handle them legally, the nice law-abiding little government boys and girls call on us to handle them illegally. Like when somebody who considers himself untouchable starts putting million-dollar prices on authors’ heads. That’s when the word goes down and the wolves go out. Just call me Lobo for short.”

  Vasquez said, “This is why you have come? Because the money was offered?”

  I said, “Yes, Mr. Vasquez. This is not considered acceptable behavior. I have been sent to discourage it. As a former journalist of sorts, I am happy to do so.” Nobody spoke for a moment; then I went on: “Salman Rushdie went to the British for help. I don’t know what kind of preventive measures are being taken on his behalf. I would like to think that the old ayatollah didn’t die a natural death, and that the new one is soon to go, and they’ll continue to fall until the bounty is withdrawn, but the British are gentlemen and I’m undoubtedly only dreaming. But we’re not gentlemen. Raoul Marcus Carrera Mascarena, alias Mark Steiner, came to the U.S. for help and we failed him; the
least we can do is make certain you don’t ever threaten another writer or journalist or TV reporter or whatever with your drug millions, and that anybody else who considers silencing his critics with the same threat will think again.” I glanced at Ruth. “Please take the dog out into the hall. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Spring in New Mexico had a great deal in common with fall in Peru. There was the same mountain chill in the air even on a bright day. At the rifle range I shot sixty rounds, the quota I set myself. The bullets went pretty much where I wanted them to, with only a few fliers. I was getting back into shape, mentally as well as physically; Mac had commented on the fact that my after-mission checkup had shown considerable improvement over my previous evaluation.

  “Operating at eleven thousand feet seems to have done you good,” he’d said.

  The window behind him showed a green Washington; it’s a lousy city, as far as I’m concerned, but if you’ve got to go there, spring is the time. Maybe I’d take in the cherry blossoms on this visit; I’d never seen them.

  “Did Armando make out okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, he apologizes for not being able to help you at the end, but he couldn’t penetrate the security.”

  “He did all right; he’s a good man,” I said. Curiosity made me go on: “I had him pass along a computer diskette. Did our backroom boys manage to unscramble it?”

  “They said that those standard encryption programs are really very good; but the password was Anemone and the text was some chapters from a novel by a lady named D’Arcy. A rather sexy novel, they said.”

  I said, “I’ll have to read it sometime. Have you heard anything from Roger Ackerman?”