The Devastators
( Matt Helm - 9 )
Donald Hamilton
Donald Hamilton
The Devastators
chapter ONE
I made my bride's acquaintance at Kennedy Airport, formerly Idlewild, just in time for us to commence our honeymoon by catching the ten P.M. jet to London. It wasn't the first time I'd acquired a wife in the line of duty, but it was the first time I'd done it sight unseen.
I'd been informed that the girl's code name was Claire, and that she was small-five-two, one-oh-five-and blonde and tanned and competent. It had been explained to me that they were hauling her back from the Far East somewhere to do this job with me, and that she was coming straight through, briefed and costumed and inoculated on the way, so there would be no opportunity for advance introductions.
"We needed a female agent who had never operated in Europe," Mac had told me in his Washington office on the second floor of an obscure building in an obscure street, never mind the name. "I do not think she will be recognized there. I hope not."
"I've operated in Europe, sir," I said.
He looked at me across the desk. It was hard to read his expression for the sunlit window behind him-not that his expression is ever easy to read, whatever the direction of the light. I'd known him a long time, and if his hair was gray, it was no grayer now than when I'd first met him. His eyebrows were still startlingly black. Maybe he dyed them for effect. It was, I knew, a matter for speculation among the younger members of the outfit. As far as I was concerned, his eyebrows were his own business. I wasn't about to ask. I'll buck him on something important, but not on eyebrows.
"You are supposed to be recognized, Eric," he said, using my code name for emphasis.
"I see," I said, although that was a slight exaggeration.
"You are the stalking-horse," he said. "You will travel under your own name, openly. You are Matthew Helm, a U.S. undercover agent-but ostensibly you are off duty for the moment. You have just married a lovely young girl after a whirlwind romance, and you've been given a month's leave for honeymoon purposes."
It was more or less what I'd expected after the buildup he'd given the unknown girl-he doesn't pass out words like 'competent' lightly-but that didn't make me like it any better.
"All right, I'm a horse," I said. "Who're we stalking and how, playing the honeymoon couple seeing the sights of Europe. It doesn't seem like a very promising gambit to me."
What I really meant, I suppose, was that the matrimonial approach, while it has certain advantages, also has certain drawbacks for the personnel involved. Playing house with a fellow agent of the opposite sex, even a good-looking one, isn't my idea of fun and games. It's hard to act appropriately tender toward a little lady you know can throw you across the room; and I kind of like to have some say about whom I sleep with. However, I didn't tell him this directly. Where a job is concerned, our likes and dislikes are considered quite irrelevant.
Mac ignored my indirect protest, if you could call it that. He said, "Well, there's a casual visit you will make in London. Your motivation will ostensibly be quite innocent, in line with your bridegroom cover, but the mere fact of your contact with a man who is under surveillance will call you to the attention of the other team, or teams. After they have identified you as one of our people, I think we can safely count on nature taking its more or less violent course."
"Teams, plural?" I grimaced. "You sound as if you expected a battle royal over there, sir. How many other outfits do you figure we'll be taking on?"
"At least three, maybe more," he said. "The man in whom we're really interested-not the subsidiary figure you'll see in London-has a fairly large and efficient organization of his own, or it has him. We don't quite know the relationship there. Of course the British are interested, since he is using their country for a base of operations. And of course the Russians are trying to turn the situation to their own advantage."
"Sure," I said. "This base of operations you mentioned, sir. Do we know where it is?"
"If we did, your play-acting would not be necessary. We think we have the area narrowed down to Scotland, probably northwestern Scotland. Your itinerary has been arranged accordingly."
"I'm under the impression that's a rugged country for a honeymoon," I said. "At a hundred and five pounds, my bride's a little light for real tough going."
"Don't worry about Claire. If she can survive the jungles of southeast Asia, she can presumably survive the Scottish Highlands."
"Well, it's not quite the same thing, sir, but I see your point."
"Of course, you can expect to be under very close observation, by one party or another, from the moment you make your first contact in London. You will govern yourselves accordingly."
"Yes, sir," I said. "Once we've tripped the trigger, so to speak, we'll assume we're getting the full treatment: mike in the room, bugs on the phone, electronic gadgets stuck to the car with Alnico magnets, and little lipreading men with big binoculars hiding in the bushes. We'll even keep up the act in the john, if you like." I made a face. "Not to mention, I suppose, in bed."
"That will be fine," he said calmly. The facts of life are pretty much taken for granted around that office. He went on: "There is really no doubt that you will be spotted, Eric. You are in their files, and in a sense you are expected-you, or someone like you."
I said, "I won't thank you for the compliment, sir, until I'm sure it is one."
"What I mean is," he said, "that it's a matter of record that we've used you as a troubleshooter before, when a job went sour on us. We've just lost the man who was handling this assignment. Actually, he wasn't ours, but we've been asked to replace him. The British authorities are delaying public identification of the body for reasons of their own, but they passed the word in private."
I frowned thoughtfully. "Which brings up a ticklish point, sir. The British authorities. What is the official line?"
Mac said without expression, "Officially, you will cooperate with the British authorities, and give them full respect and consideration."
"Yes, sir," I said. "And unofficially?"
He sighed. "Eric, you are being tiresome. Unofficially, you will of course do the job assigned to you the way it was assigned, regardless of who may attempt to interfere. The British still, apparently, have hopes of accomplishing this mission in a genteel and civilized way. After a number of failures, we have given up such hopes. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," I said. "Does this man I'm replacing have a name? I mean, did he have a name?"
"His real name doesn't matter. You didn't know him. He was calling himself Paul Buchanan, posing as an American tourist interested in tracing his Scottish forebears. That is the only lead we have, at present, to the person we are seeking-I'll give you the details in a moment-and Buchanan was working on it. He started, as you will, in London, traveled north to Scotland, and disappeared into the Highlands. He was found dead near a small town called Ullapool, on an inlet of the west coast, pretty far up."
"Dead how?" I asked.
"The preliminary report we have, courtesy of the British, states only that he seems to have died of natural causes." Mac's voice was toneless.
"Sure," I said. "And just what was friend Buchanan doing way to hell and gone up there?"
"We don't know." After a moment Mac frowned.
"What do you mean, Eric?"
I said, "To the best of my recollection, that's Mackenzie and MacDonnell territory up there, sir. The Buchanans come from farther south, not much above Glasgow. Why would anyone tracing them take off into the remote western Highlands?"
Mac said, "Maybe that was the mistake that betrayed him. As I told you, he was not one of ours, and I don't know how
good a briefing he had, or how good an actor he was. He obviously blundered badly enough, somehow, to get himself caught and killed." Mac eyed me sharply. "And how do you know so much about the families of Scotland? You don't happen to have an ancestor who came from there?"
I shrugged. "I can probably scare one up if he's needed."
"I thought your family was strictly Scandinavian."
It was nice to catch him on something he didn't have in the files. "Whose family is strictly anything?" I asked. "Quite a few Scots migrated to Sweden at one time or another, sir. This was a guy named Glenmore. He had a claymore for hire and times were tough at home, so he went over a few hundred years back to swing his blade for a royal personage named Gustavus Adoiphus, who happened to have employment for gents handy with edged weapons. Apparently he married and stayed on after the wars were over. I don't remember the exact date or the place in Scotland he came from, but it's in a pile of stuff I'm paying storage charges on. My mother always claimed we were distantly related to some old Scottish dukes or barons."
"Modest people, the Scots," Mac said dryly. "I never met an Irishman yet who'd admit to being descended from anything less than a king. I want you to dig up as much family information as you can, Eric. It will give you an excuse for following Buchanan's trail through the wilderness of Scottish genealogy."
"Yes, sir," I said. "Let's hope my family tree grows up Ullapool way. If not, I suppose I'll have to bend it slightly. And then what?"
"By that time, 1 hope, you will have attracted enough attention from enough people to make the next move obvious. What form the attention will take is something we cannot predict. That is why Claire is being assigned to you."
"She's the backup man, or woman?"
"Precisely. She will be the featherheaded little blonde bride-naпve, ineffectual, and, we hope, ignored. This will give her an advantageous position from which to make her move when the time comes.
"You mean." I said, "when some natural causes try to make me dead like they did Buchanan?"
"That is more or less what I mean," Mac said slowly. "However, you must remember that Claire's job is not to serve you as bodyguard. The subject is her chief concern. Her assignment is to take care of him after you have, we hope, led him to reveal himself. She is under strict orders not to break cover-not under any circumstances-until she is certain that it will lead directly to the completion of the mission." He paused, looking at me steadily. "I hope I again make myself clear."
"Yes, sir," I said. "You always do, sir. In other words, as far as staying alive is concerned, I'm on my own. Claire will play helpless, letting the bodies fall where they may, until she sees the big break coming. Okay, I'm warned. I won't look to her for protection." I regarded him across the desk. "And now, sir, just what is the mission-or should I say, who is the mission? I've still heard no names and received no descriptions."
He said, as if in answer, "You've had all your shots?"
"Yes, sir. I'm immune to everything but the common cold. Any mosquito or tsetse fly that tries to stick germs into my hide is wasting his cotton-picking time. You'd think I was heading for a tropical-fever belt instead of the Scottish Highlands. I suppose there's a reason." I studied his face a moment longer. "Could it have some connection with the so-called natural causes that killed Buchanan?"
"It could," he said. "Don't count too much on those shots, Eric. Buchanan had had them, too."
"I see," I said. Again, it wasn't exactly true. "Perhaps you'd better tell me about it, sir," I said.
He did.
chapter TWO
The information he gave me was very secret, so secret that it was known only to Washington and London, and maybe Moscow, Berlin, Paris, and Peking. Anyway, it was so highly classified that it hadn't been transmitted to Claire, in transit, because Mac didn't have authority to entrust it to an ordinary messenger. I was going to have to give her the final details after we'd met and found a secure place to talk.
Whether or not the dope I'd been given was actually as secret as its classification indicated-very few things are- it gave me plenty to think about on my flight from Washington to New York. I was still thinking about it as I climbed the stairs to the BOAC economy-class waiting room after going through the usual ticket-and-passport routine. I had the description, so I had no trouble spotting my bride. The world isn't exactly crowded with pretty little sunburned blondes, although it would be nice if it were. To clinch the identification, she was reading the current copy of House Beautiful, presumably boning up on how to furnish the split-level honeymoon cottage when we got home.
I stopped in front of her. She looked up from her magazine. It was a funny moment. She'd presumably been given as much information about me as I'd been given about her. We knew everything about each other that mattered professionally, and we didn't know each other at all, and now we were under orders to play man and wife-with all that implied-for days, maybe weeks, depending on how the job went.
There was an instant of wary appraisal. I got the impression she wasn't any happier about being told whom to share her bed and toothpaste with than I'd been. Then she went smoothly into her act. She jumped to her feet, letting the magazine fall unheeded to the floor.
"Matt, darling!" she cried, and threw her arms around my neck and kissed me hard, attracting some bored glances from our fellow travelers-to-be. "Oh, I was so afraid your plane was going to be late, dear!" she went on breathlessly. "How was Washington? Did you get your last-minute business all taken care of?"
I nibbled affectionately at her ear. "Sure," I said. "Did you have a nice visit with your folks, honey? I wish I could have gone with you and met them as we'd planned, but we'll stop by when we get back…
These histrionics were probably unnecessary, since there was no reason to think anybody would be watching us with more than casual interest until I made my first move to follow Buchanan's trail, in London. Still, somebody might check back this far later, and I always feel that if you're going to play a part, you might as well play it all the way, at least in public-and it's hard to tell what's public and what isn't, these electronic days. I was glad to see that Claire had the same professional attitude. I reminded myself that she was no longer Claire to me: she was Winifred Helm, my sweet little wife.
I looked her over and decided that I could have done worse. In fact, she was probably the cutest wife I'd ever had, for pretend or for real. I was married in earnest once, to a tall New England girl-I was a respectable, home-loving citizen for a number of years-but anybody who's been in this line of work is a poor matrimonial risk and it fizzled in the end. Now I had a pretty, phony little spouse, imported from the Orient, who had to stand on tiptoe to kiss me.
Her summer tan-well, it looked like a summer tan, however she'd got it-gave her an air of wholesomeness that was probably more convincing, for the role, than a pink Dresden-doll complexion would have been. That baby-face gag has been pulled a little too often. The warm dark skin also made an attractive contrast to her pale hair and clear blue eyes. She had just the right figure for her diminutive size, by no means sturdy and still not so fragile that you had to worry lest the first breeze carry her away. She was all done up for honeymoon purposes, to use Mac's terminology, in a little blue suit rather scanty in the skirt, a tricky white blouse, little white gloves, and one of those soft ruffled hats or bonnets, kind of resembling big fuzzy bathing caps, that seem to have taken the country by storm.
She looked just like the nice little girl next door, the one you'd like to take to the beach or tennis court, and she'd killed seven times, twice with her bare hands. At least so said the record in Washington, and I had no reason to doubt it. Well, they come in all shapes and sizes: small shapely females as well as tall bony males. I'd been in the business longer than she. I was in no position to criticize her homicidal record.
We held hands clear across the Atlantic. The stewardesses-healthy-looking, friendly British girls who were a pleasant change of pace from the movie queens officiating on American
airlines-spotted us as newlyweds immediately, as they were supposed to. They thought my bride was a living doll, but they weren't quite sure she hadn't made a mistake in marrying an older man. However, I seemed to appreciate her, and that inclined them to forgive me my advanced years-I won't say how advanced; I'll just say that neither girl was much over twenty.
Over the ocean, we met the new day traveling westward. The night hadn't lasted more than a few hours, jet travel being what it is. At London's Heathrow Airport, the passport-and-customs bit was rudimentary. Afterwards, a man from Claridge's Hotel descended on us, stuck us in a taxi, and aimed us hotelward.
"Is that all there's to it?" my Winifred asked as we rode through the frantic, left-handed London traffic. I saw that she was genuinely surprised. I guess she'd come from places where border formalities were taken more seriously.
I said, "Unless we decide to visit behind the Iron Curtain, the only time we're likely to have any trouble is when we're getting back into the U.S. Then we can expect to be treated as hardened criminals with evil intentions- although I've heard rumors that even our savage customs watchdogs are on a courtesy kick these days." After a while, I said, "There's where we're staying, honey. Pipe the doorman in top hat and knee breeches."
Winnie played up, looking at first prettily intrigued and then a little dubious, like the naпve country bride she was supposed to be. "But isn't it terribly expensive? And and fancy? My clothes aren't really…"
"Your clothes are swell," I said. "I saved money on the plane tickets so we could blow it here. Everybody ought to stay at Claridge's once. Don't be scared, baby. Hell, they let the queen of Holland stay here all during World War II, and she isn't half as good-looking as you are."
This exchange was probably wasted on the cab driver behind his glass partition, but it warmed us up for our performance inside the hotel. In our best self-conscious-newlywed manner, we ran the gantlet of polite, formally attired reception clerks-the tailcoat industry would be in a bad way if it lost the trade of European hostelries-and were ushered into a third-floor room large enough so that, if you needed exercise, you could roll back the rug and play handball beyond the bed. After a couple of vigorous games, you could cool off in a tub large enough to swim in. The phone was supplemented by various auxiliary bell systems for summoning waiters, maids, and valets. It was quite a layout, in its quiet, old-fashioned, overstuffed way.
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