The Terminators

by Hamilton, Donald

  "All this—" Kotko cleared his throat. "All this elaborate trickery and intrigue just to play a bad joke? I don't believe it!"

  "Oh, not just to play a bad joke," I said. "That was only an added frill I guess he couldn't resist. He had to sell you something, it was necessary to his plan, and why not make it funny? But that's incidental."

  "Then what—"

  "You see, Mr. Kotko," I said deliberately, "a lady named Frances Priest drowned when her husband couldn't go after her in his boat because one of your stations had capriciously refused to sell him enough fuel." I glanced at my watch. "I expect he'll be here pretty soon, depending on what kind of transportation he's managed from Svolvaer. What all this elaborate trickery is about, Mr. Kotko, is to decoy you here to Norway where you don't usually come, prepared to receive visitors although you usually don't. Well, a visitor. Now he's going to kill you."

  I'd thought, with all the chatter, I'd built it up pretty well. I'd thought it would be a real blockbuster, and it did silence the room for a moment. Then Denison laughed. He turned and walked quickly to the stairs.

  "Wes, Bill," he shouted. "Everything okay down there?"

  "Everything's quiet, Mr. Denison," came the reply, in the voice of the taller man, Wesley.

  "Well, keep your eyes open." Denison marched back. "They're good boys, Mr. Kotko. Nobody'll get past them."

  It was my turn to laugh. "Luke, friend, like I just told your boss here, you haven't done your homework. Do you know who's out there? He didn't want to do it this way, I figure, he wanted to trick his way in neatly and do the job without a lot of shooting, but if he's got to blast his way in here, he'll blast, and he's got the force to do it." I went on before Denison could speak: "You told me you checked on Captain Henry Priest. What did you find out?"

  His eyes wavered. "Well, just the usual things. He seems to be pretty respectable, a solid citizen."

  "No trouble? Everybody chatty, willing to spill everything they know about Captain Priest?" He'd already told me the answer, but I wanted Kotko to hear it.

  "Well, as a matter of fact, here in Norway they kind of clammed up, but—"

  "Sigmund," I said. "The Sigmund Siphon. Did it occur to you to trace the name?''

  "Sure, but—" He stopped.

  Kotko said harshly, "But what, Denison?"

  "Same thing, Mr. Kotko. Nobody'd talk to me about that name."

  Kotko looked at me. "What are you driving at, Helm?"

  "I figure they must have had you spotted since you moved in," I said. "They're local people, and a stranger like you renting a house like this isn't going to be a secret, locally. They're just waiting for the word. And when they come for you, your boy Denison and a couple of bodyguards aren't going to stop them, Mr. Kotko. Hell, at one time they took on the whole German Army; they'll eat up your protection like chocolate candy."

  Denison said impatiently, "There's nobody out there, or the boys would have seen them. Who's this mysterious they we're supposed to be so afraid of, anyway?"

  I ignored him and spoke to Kotko. "I've got one last story for you, Mr. Kotko," I said. "Another World War II story. About a certain lieutenant in the U.S. Navy, of Norwegian extraction, who was sent over here, code name Sigmund, to help out the Norwegian resistance. He did a pretty good job, according to some people. Other folks thought he was just a little too tricky, just a little too ruthless, just a little too bloodthirsty. . . . You ought to pass the word down the line, Mr. Kotko. Next time your employees get snotty, I suggest they pick on someone who hasn't got quite so many violent friends in distant places, quite so many dead men to his credit. When you meet a guy like that, and you hurt him, he kills. Now, if we can't come up with a bright idea fast, you're going to die for five gallons of Diesel #2."

  Kotko stared at me for a moment; then he turned on his heel. "Gerald!"

  "Yes, Mr. Kotko." The voice came up the stairs.

  "Get the helicopter warmed up, Jerry. We're getting out of here."

  Denison said desperately, "He's bluffing, Mr. Kotko. He's trying to scare us—"

  "Shut up. Or think of a good explanation for landing me in the middle of an Arctic hornet's nest. It had better be damned good, or you're through!"

  I interrupted. "Mr. Kotko."

  "What is it?"

  "I'd stop that man, if I were you. He seems like a nice, competent sort, even if his vocabulary is kind of limited. And that's an expensive aircraft."

  Kotko's eyes were narrow. "What do you mean—"

  He stopped. Gerald, the pilot, must have slipped out without slamming the door. Now we heard the helicopter's powerplant sputter into life outside. Instantly, as if answering the sound of the exhaust, an automatic weapon opened up down the valley. Another, closer, joined it. There was a moment of silence after they had stopped, followed by the solid, jolting clap of a heavier explosion: a grenade. We could see the flickering red light of the burning machine growing strong at the window as the fire took hold, even though the wreckage itself was out of our field of view.

  Sigmund had arrived.

  XXII.

  IT took us a little while to work it out between us, Denison and I, while the tall flames gradually subsided, and nothing moved in the piney woods flanking the valley in which the cows still stood around in the mist and falling snow looking wet and unhappy.

  Then Denison went off to make the arrangements. Presently the two girls came through the room, heading for the garage stairs at the far end of the house. Greta Elfenbein stopped to look at me. Her jaunty raincoat and sou'wester concealed most of the damage but she was still kind of pink around the eyes and nose. Her expression reminded me of her father's, after I'd put my knife through his hand. There had been a moment when we'd almost been friends, Greta and I, and she'd used my hanky, but now she hated me. I hadn't behaved like a gentleman. I'd let the nasty man muss her up and bloody her nose without uttering a sound of protest. I hadn't hurled myself heroically to her rescue and got myself shot or clubbed, and she'd never forgive me. The girl called Misty urged her forward, and she turned away without speaking.

  Denison returned, a little breathless. "Well, keep your fingers crossed," he said. "They're warming up the Mercedes. Here are the hat and coat you wanted. L. A. doesn't like leaving them with you. He thinks they make him look rugged and virile, like a Cossack or something."

  "He's got a choice," I said. "He can leave his life here instead, if he prefers. Remember, now, don't go too far before you dump the blonde, if she still insists on playing the female lead in our little drama. Thirty yards should do it. Then take off straight down the road and don't look left or right, understand? If there's anything there, you don't want to see it. And once you get to Narvik—what did you say, ten kilometers?—get him out of this country. Sweden, Iceland, Scotland, England. Any damned place but Norway. Okay?" I paused, and spoke carefully, "Oh, and don't forget to try to get hold of Elfenbein and make that trade, will you? I'd keep the daughter here and deal with him myself, but there's a bigger chance of something going wrong at this end."

  "I'll do what I can for your lady colleague," Denison said. He hesitated and grimaced. "Well, you did it, you bastard. You pulled out the rug. The way L. A. feels about me right now for letting him get into this mess, you could shoot me dead and he wouldn't lift a finger to avenge me."

  I grinned. "And I might just do it, too, if I didn't need you to get that girl out of Elfenbein's hands, if she's still alive. And to keep those stumblebums of yours in line. For God's sake don't let them shoot anybody, Paul. Just drive; never mind the heroics. The only one he really wants is Kotko, but one little shot and you'll probably be cut to pieces by the undisciplined, trigger-happy troops. I'm betting those woods are full of rusty firepower stuffed with ammunition so ancient it's turned green, but some of it still shoots pretty good. If you don't beUeve me, look at that chopper.... Paul."

  "Yes?"

  I hesitated, and drew a long breath, and said it. "Look, amigo, as far as I'm concerned, you can in
voke the statute of limitations. I can't keep my mind on a vendetta after seven years. Okay?"

  "Sure," he said. He grinned abruptly. "Sorry, maybe that's inadequate, Matt, but I can't help remembering there's a gent in Washington who's got a longer memory than you have."

  I regarded him for a moment. "Are you still willing to take advice from the Old Master, Mr. Denison?"

  "Any time," he said cheerfully.

  "Then listen," I said. "You're through with Kotko, however it breaks. He's not going to forgive you, even if you make amends by saving his life. I presume you've had sense enough to cash in on your seven soft years. I figure you've made arrangements for a new life somewhere for when this one wore out, as it was bound to do. You've got only one thing to worry about, that somebody'll come looking for you who knows how to look, right?"

  "Right on," Denison said. His voice was expressionless.

  I said, "Well, use your brains, Mr. Denison. Think real hard. Once you're a long way from here, maybe you can figure out how you can throw a bone to that guy in Washington, something that'll make him drop your trail and forget you. Quid pro quo, I think is the Latin phrase, Mr. Denison."

  There was a little silence. At last Denison said slowly, "I think I see what you mean. I'll give it some consideration, depending on how things work out. But you really are a cold-blooded bastard, aren't you, friend Eric?"

  "I hope so," I said. "It's got a lot of survival value.. Now I'd like that Llama pistol back, and the knife. And I want that big, impressive Browning Hi-Power and the shoulder holster your man Wesley is wearing, if only to keep him from getting brave at the wrong moment."

  Denison studied me for a moment. Obviously he wanted to ask questions, like how I was going to handle it—certainly I wasn't going to hold off a bunch of tough old resistance fighters with a couple of little handguns, or big ones either—but it was my business and he didn't pry.

  He said merely, "I'll get them to you."

  "Before you go, tell me something," I said.

  "What?"

  "In Trondheim. Under that bridge, under the railroad tracks, remember? Did you maybe take a dive deliberately just to make me feel so good I'd leave you alone?"

  He grinned. "You'll never know, will you, Matt?" he said. "So long now."

  "So long, Denny."

  I hadn't meant to call him that. It was a nickname I hadn't used, or thought of, for a hell of a long time. Holding Kotko's hat and coat, I watched him go. It was too bad. I'd had a lot of fun hating him for seven years— everybody's got to hate somebody—but the old enthusiasm was gone. I'd have to find somebody else to maintain my adrenalin level. Presently Wesley came hurrying up from the garage side of the house and handed me the armaments I'd asked for, with obvious resentment at having to give up his own pet cannon.

  "He says five minutes. Even with the ventilation system, we can't stay in that garage much longer with the motor going."

  "Five minutes, check," I said, glancing at my watch.

  Wesley disappeared. I stuck the Spanish .380 under my belt, dropped the knife back into my pocket, and climbed into the shoulder holster supporting the Belgian 9mm. With my jacket back on once more, I donned Kotko's long, sweeping, dramatic, fur coat, and put the Cossack cap on my head. I looked into the mirror on the nearby wall, and found my appearance satisfactory. I'd got a nice tan in Florida and at a distance one tall, tanned gent with a big fur hat on looks pretty much like another, particularly on a foggy, snowy Arctic day. It might work—unless Sigmund remembered that I'd pulled more or less the same stunt once before on this trip, on a ship's gangplank, with slightly different personnel.

  I picked up the attach6 case that had been parked beside the table. It had the initials L. A. K. on it in gold. I descended the piney, rustic staircase to the door by which we'd entered this house. It seemed a long time ago.

  Standing there, I opened the attache case and disarranged the neat business papers it contained so they stuck out a bit here and there. I closed it, but it wouldn't latch now; it wasn't supposed to. The sweep hand of my watch counted off the three hundredth second, but I waited until I saw the garage door under the other wing of the house slide up, and the shiny Mercedes inside begin to move. Then, holding the unfastened attache case to my breast, making a big deal of trying to close it as I ran, I hurled myself through the door and after the car that was already turning away from me.

  "Denison, what the hell—" I yelled in a high voice. ''Denison, wait, come back here! Denison, you treacherous bastard—"

  I faked a slip and went to my knees, dropping the case. Papers blew everywhere. I tried to gather them up, and stuff them into place, frantically; then I glanced at the receding car, and left the case, and ran, pounding through the thin, slushy snow down the tracks of the Michelin tires.

  "Denison, you damned Judas—"

  In the middle of the rear seat, through the rear window, I could see my own hat and the collar of my own raincoat, worn by Kotko. A struggle was going on up forward. Suddenly the car slid to a halt, the right front door opened, and the girl called Misty was shoved out to sprawl in the snow. A pale blue airplane-luggage suitcase followed her. It burst open upon impact. The tires spun, gained traction, and carried the big Mercedes away. When I came up, the girl was trying to reclaim her scattered belongings. I yanked her up by the shoulder of the blue ski-parka she'd put on over her thin Riviera costume.

  "You bitch!" I shouted shrilly. "You were supposed to make them wait for me!"

  "I tried. Line, I tried. Why do you think they shoved me out of the car—"

  I swung the flat of my hand against her cheek, not really hard enough to knock her down, but she lost her footing in the slippery snow and fell maybe deliberately. It was too bad vaudeville was dead; we'd have made a great team. I turned and fled back to the house, stumbling in my frantic haste to reach shelter. Inside, I waited, panting. In a little while the girl came through the door, hugging her suitcase, from which trailed odds and ends of damp, snowy feminine garments. She was pretty damp and snowy herself. She leaned against the wall and drew a long, ragged breath.

  "Wow! Did we have to be so damned realistic? Half my clothes are ruined. And if that's what you call pulling a punch, what happens when you really hit a girl, her head flying through the air like a volleyball? Do you really think they bought that corny act?"

  I listened for a moment. "Well, nobody's shooting out there," I said. "The car must be pretty well clear by now. .. . What are you doing?"

  "Look at me, I'm soaked from the waist down after flopping around in that mushy snow in these damned silk pajamas! Any law against a girl's putting on some jeans?" I put my hand on her arm, restraining her from groping through the stuff in the suitcase. "We're frightened silly," I said. "We're panicky, cornered rats, waiting for the cat to come through the door, remember? Do we worry about a little damp snow, for God's sake, when we're already wetting our pants in abject, incontinent terror? The play's the thing. What's a little pneumonia between friends. Miss. . . ." I stopped, and grinned. "What's your name, anyway?"

  "Moreau," she said. "Misty Moreau. Mademoiselle Meestee Moreau if you want to be formal." I didn't say anything. I just stood there grinning at her. She made a face at me, and said, "All right, damn you, would you believe Janet Morrow?"

  "Hi, Jan," I said. "I'm Matt. Let's go upstairs. Is there any more of that beer you were drinking. . . ? Damn it, I don't suppose drinking beer goes with our cowardly characters, either. Well, at least we can sit down and be comfortable while we await our dooms with fear and trembling."

  Upstairs, the fire was still burning brightly, throwing out a lot of pleasant warmth; but the big, windowed room seemed very empty with just the two of us in it. Misty, or Jan, tossed off her ski jacket and went to the fireplace, spreading her wide, bedraggled pantslegs to the heat. Without removing the fur hat and coat, I sat down in Kotko's place behind the table that was still littered with meaningless scientific documents and imaginative mechanical drawings.


  "The armed forces have a saying: only suckers volunteer," I said at last. "I didn't ask you to stay. Frankly, it didn't occur to me."

  "You couldn't have put on such a good act without me, could you?" she said without turning her head.

  "That's right. You made it a lot more convincing. I'm not complaining, just wondering. Do you love the guy?"

  "Kotko?" She laughed without malice, "Who loves Kotko? Except Kotko."

  "Then why—"

  "The trouble with this lousy world is, there's too damned much taking and not enough giving. What the hell? I've taken enough off the guy, and I don't mean just an occasional poke in the eye. I mean, I've got it made, salted away, I'll never be hungry again, thanks to Lincoln Alexander Kotko. So it was time to give a little, understand? It was time for me to earn my lousy loot, so I could be happy with it. . . . Anyway, the poor bastard's got troubles enough without being shot."

  "Troubles?" I said. "Like what?"

  "Why do you think he hides out the way he does?" she asked, still speaking to the fire. "About ten years ago, when he went into seclusion, as they call it. Troubles like cancer, Mr. Helm. Cancer of the prostate. Under certain circumstances, they have to extract the whole works, if you know what I mean. Can't you hear all the beautiful people laughing if they knew? That's why he hid out, and shaved his head to look tough and sexy, and hired girls like me to make it look as if he still . . . well, you know. And maybe that's why . . . well, if you can't do anything else to a member of the opposite sex, maybe there's some satisfaction in roughing her up a bit occasionally. Okay. I'm durable. At that price, I can play a happy masochist as well as the next girl."

  I said, "It's a funny damn' world full of funny damn' people."

  "Talking about funny people, what's your Sigmund doing now, and why didn't he shoot you when you were outside there, right in his sights?"