The Terminators

by Hamilton, Donald

  I glanced back at the ship, and hoped Diana was sticking to her cabin and not getting too bored or scared in there—well, she was the kid who thought being scared was wonderful, I reminded myself, so that part didn't matter too much. I walked into the town—another pretty, coastal community under heavy attack by tall building cranes—and found a character who could talk some English, and got directions to the telephone office. Most towns of any size have them over there and you can make a call anywhere without worrying about being overheard by anybody who gives a damn. I found the place and pretty soon I was in a booth along the office wall talking with the gent in Oslo I'd never seen, who shortly had me connected with Washington by some kind of electronic magic I wouldn't have understood even if somebody'd bothered to try to explain it to me.

  "Eric here, sir," I said. "I've just been chatting with an old friend of ours. He says I don't hate him."

  "Indeed?" Mac said, sounding weak and distant. The magic connection wasn't very good. "Is he correct?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "It shouldn't."

  "Nevertheless," I said, "maybe I should have the current word on Paul Denison, sir."

  "There is no current word on Paul Denison, Eric. Mr. Denison is a respectable citizen employed in a responsible secretarial capacity by a certain Mr. Kotko, also very respectable—at least no one has ever proved otherwise. Since Mr. Kotko is a wealthy and influential man, on an international scale, his employees enjoy a certain immunity.

  Seven years ago, he made it clear that violent political reprisals would follow any action against, or harassment of, Mr. Denison. just what he had in mind was never specified, but there was no doubt that he had influence enough to make things, shall we say, awkward? For an important national objective, the risk might have been considered acceptable but not for an internal disciplinary problem. In other words, Eric, I did not feel then, and do not feel now, that dealing with one defector is worth jeopardizing the effectiveness of the organization as a whole. Therefore, until the situation changes, or can be changed, Mr. Denison is untouchable. I hope I make myself clear."

  "Yes, sir," I said. "Very clear."

  "Anything else?"

  "Frances Priest. How did she die?"

  There was a little pause. "I'd be interested in your reason for asking, Eric, if you'd care to state it."

  I said, carefully, "I know the guy is a friend of yours, sir. However, I kind of like to know if a man I'm working with, or for, has all his marbles. Has Hank Priest shown any signs of senility lately?"

  "None of which I'm aware."

  "Then we can't have heard the same story about Frances Priest," I said. "Because the information I got, kind of shorthand and secondhand, says that Captain Henry Priest, USN, Retired, a professional naval officer who once commanded enormous vessels in complicated battle maneuvers and on lengthy voyages, took his simple little thirty-foot sportfisherman, the Frances II, out for a simple day's spin. During the course of this brief outing, this trained and experienced seaman managed to (a) let his boat run out of fuel, and (b) have his wife tumble overboard and drown. On the face of it, that's pretty lousy boating, sir. I couldn't do much worse myself, and I don't pretend to be a sailor. So what I want to know is, is the guy competent or isn't he? I mean, if he wants to drown his wife, okay, that's between him and her; but I'd kind of object to his doing it to me, or running me into some kind of stupid deadfall up the line just Because he wasn't quite focusing at the time."

  "I don't think we need to worry about Hank's competence," Mac said. "He encountered an unfortunate combination of circumstances that could hardly have been anticipated, or avoided." I didn't say anything. I just waited. I mean, it was a tricky business, questioning him about his long-time fishing partner—he wasn't a man with a lot of friends. As a matter of fact. Hank Priest was the only one I'd met in all the time I'd worked for him. Still, it was about time for him to dish up a little background information on this job he'd sent me on practically blindfolded, and to hell with his finer feelings. After a moment, Mac went on: "You only met Hank once before, didn't you?"

  "Yes, sir, that time we were kind of operating out of his home on Robalo Island a couple of years back," I said. "That is, until last night in Bergen."

  "I think you should keep in mind," Mac said, "that he's spent practically all his life on ships, from choice. He actually loves the water. He'd planned to spend his retirement mostly afloat, fishing and cruising. He'd used a large part of his life savings to buy the Frances II. When he lost his bid for reelection he told me that in a way it was a great relief. He'd made his final gesture towards public service. Now he could relax and really retire and get out in his boat the way he'd planned. And just about that time the Arabs shut off the oil. You remember how it was, Eric, with long lines at the filling stations. Well, the marinas were often even worse; and as it happened, diesel fuel was particularly short in his part of Florida. Most of the time he couldn't take the Frances out at all that winter. When he did, he had to stay close to harbor—after spending fifty thousand dollars he couldn't really afford on a boat he'd expected would take him anywhere he felt like going!"

  I felt a little uncomfortable. Mac didn't often go in for this kind of eloquence. Well, friendship was a funny thing, as my encounter with Paul Denison had just reminded me.

  Mac said, "Hank is used to authority, and he has some fairly positive ideas. After serving his country all his life, he felt he'd earned the right to spend his retirement as he pleased—the right, and the fuel. After all, he said, they'd been happy to sell him a fifty-grand yacht; now they could damn well supply the stuff to run it. Anything else was simple fraud; like selling you a building lot that was under water so you couldn't build on it. People were arrested for pulling crooked deals like that and he wasn't swallowing any flimsy excuses about Arabs. ..."

  I watched a pretty girl typing behind the counter across the room. It seemed to me I was collecting a lot of life histories these days, complete with psychological analyses. Well, maybe they'd add up to something in the long run.

  "As you can imagine," Mac said, "Hank's attitude didn't endear him to the people at the local gas dock. It was a time when they were feeling very independent, as you may recall. That morning, he'd been informed that there was finally some diesel oil available. He arrived in the Frances to see another boat about the same size pulling away. He read the figures on the pump and asked for a similar amount, but the attendant wouldn't give it to him, on some unconvincing excuse or other. There was a scene. Frances calmed Hank down and he settled for a smaller quantity. They went fishing down the coast, the first time in several weeks. Hank had planned to return in time to catch the last of the favorable tide through the pass—you remember that narrow inlet between the islands, with its strong currents—and he'd allowed himself fuel enough to get home on, with a small reserve. However, as they were heading home, they saw smoke astern, and had to turn back to rescue a couple of boys whose boat had caught fire. One was badly burned. By the time they had the youngsters on board and patched up temporarily, they'd used up their reserve and the tide had turned against them in the pass."

  "Tough," I said, since it was time for me to say something to show I was still on the line.

  "Yes," Mac said, "it was a difficult decision. Normally, Hank told me later, he'd simply have anchored and waited for the next good tide rather than run the tanks dry fighting the current and have to radio for a tow. However, the burned boy needed medical attention, so he called the Coast Guard, told them the situation, and cruised slowly to meet the vessel they promised to send out. At the entrance, with no Coast Guard yet in sight, he sent Frances up to handle the boat from the tuna tower, from which she could see better to pick the favorable eddies, while he stood by up forward to drop the anchor if the power should fail. When they were halfway through the inlet, it did. Hank let go the hook and just about that time the burned boy in the cockpit started screaming. Frances started down the steep ladder to attend to him, maybe hu
rrying a little too fast—she wasn't exactly a young girl, remember—and right then the anchor dug in and brought the boat up short. She lost her grip and went over the side. Hank tried to reach her with a life preserver and a line but an eddy had already swept her too far away. He cut the anchor loose so the boat would drift after her, but it grounded on a sandbar. By the time the Coast Guard boat finally arrived, she was gone. They didn't find her until several days later, dead." There was a little pause. "As I said, an unfortunate combination of circumstances."

  "Yes, sir," I said. "Unfortunate. What happened to the attendant? The man at the gas dock?"

  There was a little pause. "How did you know something happened to him?"

  I said, "Five gallons more would have seen them through that tide race, and Frances Priest would still be alive," I said. "Hank couldn't help but realize it. Hell, two more gallons would probably have done it, and the guy had held back just to be nasty, right? If it had been my wife, I'd have gone back there and beat him till he rang like a gong. It wouldn't have done my dead wife a damned bit of good, but it would have made me feel a hell of a lot better—and anyway, people who play petty little ego games like that might as well learn to take the consequences, when there are consequences. I'd have considered I was performing a public service."

  I heard a dry laugh several thousand miles away. "I didn't realize you and Hank Priest had so much in common, Eric. He did exactly what you suggest, to the extent of putting the man into the hospital. It caused considerable trouble and of course he had to pay the medical expenses and some compensation; but the authorities decided not to prosecute the assault charge, under the circumstances. Later, he admitted to me that it had been a childish, damnfool thing to do. That was after he'd evolved his present idea. He said that Bismarck or Clemenceau or somebody—I meant to check-his source; but I haven't had an opportunity—once said that war was too important to be left to the generals; well, obviously petroleum was too important to be left to the oil men. If the stupid bastards, his words, couldn't produce enough to keep us running over here after they'd got us totally dependent on the stuff, it was time, he said, for sensible people to take a hand."

  ''Sensible," I said. "Yes, sir. Well, I'll let you know how this sensible larceny turns out—but just how far do I go to help him carry out this wild-eyed scheme of his?"

  Mac was silent for a second or two. When he spoke, his voice had changed slightly. "I think you may be making a serious mistake, Eric," he said. ''Do not for a moment underestimate Hank Priest. Do not for a moment dismiss him as a picturesque old seadog dabbling clumsily and inexpertly in violent terrestrial matters with which he has no experience. This may be the image he is trying to project for you at the moment—we all play these little games— but I advise you, for his sake as well as your own, to take no stock in it whatever."

  I sat there for a moment, remembering certain things, like the men lurking in the shadows in Bergen in the rain. I drew a long breath.

  "Yes, sir," I said. "I am very glad you said that, sir. Because that is exactly the way I had him pegged."

  "In the early days of World War II," Mac said, "before I was instructed to set up the organization of which you later became a member, I worked with an intelligence group assigned to maintain contact with the Norwegian underground movement. This was the Quisling era, you may recall, when large numbers of Norwegians were resisting the German occupation, and the dictatorial efforts of the puppet regime in Oslo, by any means available. We were giving them all the help we could. Our best man up north—our best along the entire coast, for that matter— was a certain U.S. Navy lieutenant of Norwegian extraction, selected, I suppose, for his knowledge of the language and the country. He was more than a courier and contact man; he planned and led a number of guerrilla operations so ingenious and effective, and I might add so totally ruthless, that the Germans put a very high price on his head. Of course, that was a good many years ago, but no man ever really forgets that kind of experience."

  "Hank Priest?" I said.

  "Yes, that is where I first met Hank," Mac said. "We've kept in touch ever since."

  Something stirred in my mind, and I said, "Those boys all had code names, didn't they?"

  "He operated under the name Sigmund. Why? Does it mean something to you?"

  I frowned through the glass of the booth at the pretty blond typist across the room. Fortunately, engrossed in her work, she didn't notice, so her feelings weren't hurt.

  "It means something," I said. "I'd hate to try to say what, right now."

  "It meant something to the Norwegians at the time," Mac said. "If Sigmund should ever return to Norway, he would not have to look far for help in whatever he wanted to do. He was a hero to those people; he still is. And don't forget, men who have once tasted of that kind of secret and violent life often don't need much of an excuse to revert to it, no matter how peaceful and profitable—and dull —their current existence may be."

  I said slowly, "If he's got that kind of Resistance-assistance ready to pop out of the fjords and fjells, what does Sigmund want with me?"

  "Most of his former Norwegian associates are rough farmers and fishermen, local people. He said he needed someone who could play the part of an American tourist; someone trained in current techniques, with enough of a reputation in modem undercover circles to discourage interference,"

  "Well, despite his vast wartime experience, Mr. Sigmund seems to have overestimated what a reputation can do," I said wryly. "We've got interference coming out our ears over here. But never mind that, sir. Tell me, how many people know this about Priest? Would Denison know it, for instance?"

  "Paul Denison is just a little too young to have taken an active part in World War II. He could therefore hardly have picked up the story in the line of duty and it was never written up afterwards. If he checks the files—well, as far as the Navy was concerned, Hank was simply on detached duty connected with intelligence, details unspecified. All other records were destroyed to protect the people involved. I would say there's hardly any chance of Denison, or any other investigator, stumbling across the information at the American or British end. As far as Norway is concerned, if Hank wasn't betrayed back when there was a large price on his head, it's unlikely that anybody would reveal his identity now. Those who loved him wouldn't betray him and those who didn't—there were a few; one makes enemies in a job like that—wouldn't dare risk the wrath of his friends, even now. I would say Hank has nothing to fear from the Norwegians."

  "Yes, sir," I said. "The big question is, what have they to fear from him?"

  After a brief pause, Mac said, "Perhaps you had better explain what you have in mind."

  "You know damned well what I have in mind, sir," I said. "If I add up all the information I've received so far, I come to the logical conclusion that the Skipper, as he likes to be called around here, is deliberately making use of his tough old Norwegian comrades—patriots all, or they wouldn't have risked their lives against the Nazis—to steal Norwegian oil."

  Mac said carefully, "When you put it like that, it does sound a bit implausible, doesn't it, Eric?"

  "Implausible," I said. "Yes, sir. Logical it may be, but it never was a very convincing story. With what you've told me, it becomes damned near incredible. I have a strange hunch there are things I'm not being told. Any comments, sir?"

  He didn't speak at once. I sat there and listened to the hum of the electrons bridging the several thousand miles between us. When his voice came again, it sounded formal and remote: "Actually, the true nature of Captain Priest's enterprise, and its success or failure, is no concern of this department, Eric."

  I whistled soundlessly through my teeth, recognizing the symptoms. Washington is the city of doubletalk and my chief is its unrecognized champion. I mean, when he doesn't want to say something, he can find more different ways of not saying it than any man I ever met. I was beginning to think that he was setting some real records in this case.

  "That sounds real great,
sir," I said sourly. "Just what the hell does it mean?"

  "It means that we are obliged to contribute only what we were asked to contribute: your presence and your reputation, Eric. No further assistance was requested, so we have no obligation beyond this. At least you have none, as far as Henry Priest is concerned. There is, of course, another desirable objective you should keep in mind, but we've already discussed that."

  "Yes, sir," I said, reflecting that it would have been nice if he'd drawn these fine lines for me a couple of days ago. I didn't say that, however. "Spell it out, sir," I said. "I seem to be a little slow today."

  His voice was deliberate and emotionless: "As I said, your official duties in connection with Hank Priest are limited to those described. Unofficially, I am making a request that you are at liberty to disregard if you so choose, or if circumstances so dictate. I have known Hank Priest for a long time. He has been a good friend. It is possible that he does not realize that this is not wartime—at least not the war he knew—and that Sigmund is out of date. Regardless of what help he may find elsewhere, I would like you to take care of him to the best of your ability."

  IX.

  AFTER paying the nice Norwegian lady at the counter for my lengthy call to Oslo, and winking at the pretty blond girl at the typewriter who'd restored my faith in lovely Scandinavian womanhood, I left the telephone office. Outside, the sun was shining brightly for a change —well, as brightly as it ever shines that far north at that time of the year. The little town looked clean and pretty but while the houses were colorful and picturesque by American standards, they didn't seem very old by the standards of Europe, where a dwelling erected in the days of Columbus is considered barely broken in. Of course, this could be a new section of town but I remembered that the Nazis were supposed to have systematically destroyed a large number of communities along the Norwegian coast when they pulled out in 1945, necessitating complete rebuilding. . ..