The Silencers mh-5

by Donald Hamilton

  Gail said something I couldn't hear over the noise.

  "That's right," he shouted back, "but I could always get around her, remember? I had her eating right out of my hand. She was still in love with me, and she had a guilty conscience a mile wide, after what she'd tried to do. Also, she was a sucker for Dr. Naldi's pitch, the silly little fool… Well, she wasn't so little, come to think of it. She was a well-stacked kid; she really looked good on that stage, I'll give her that. It was kind of a pity. But she knew too much, and things were getting tight. I didn't want her delivering the evidence to me with a couple of coppers watching. So I snapped my fingers, just like that." He snapped his fingers. "I can kill, too, Precious, if they force me to it. And when I'm through, I'll have more men around me like the man who threw the knife that night, tough men, dangerous men, just waiting for me to snap my fingers again!"

  She said something else, and he said something else, still telling her what a big man he was going to be some day. Or words to that effect. His type are always going to be big men some day. I'd heard the routine before so many times I didn't bother to listen to the Gunther version. They're always small men wanting to be big, and they never make it. They always wind up stooges for pros like Wegmann.

  But he was giving me time, and that was fine, but then he stopped talking and started to move away. That wasn't good. If he got to sitting down on the wooden stool over by the engine with his gun ready, watching, I'd never manage to do what needed to be done, unseen, with my clumsy, bound hands.

  "Sam!" Gail pleaded desperately. "Please, Sam! I don't care about Janie; I'm sorry I mentioned it! She hated me anyway, and you know why! Sam, please, you've got to help me! You've got to! Why, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you!"

  He stopped and frowned and came back. "Who're you trying to kid, Precious?" he shouted. "You came up here with this guy, because you were so mad at him. You told us all about it down in Carrizozo, remember? You were getting back at him because he'd treated you disrespectfully, or something, back in El Paso."

  "Yes, that's what I told you," she admitted. "I was too proud to admit that I… Not to your face, Sam; not with people listening. Don't you understand? He was going to kill you. I had to do something to prevent it, to warn you, to help you… Don't you understand, Sam? I did it for you!"

  I didn't think he'd buy it. It was pretty damn corny. He looked down at her for a moment in silence, thinking it over. I saw to my surprise that he was flattered and intrigued. He'd made his living off women for years. I guess it came as no real surprise that there was one more in the world who found him irresistible.

  He started to speak, then changed his mind. He laughed shortly, and turned away. He went over to the engine, with a backward glance and sat down on the stool with his elbows on his knees, both hands supporting the little nickel-plated pistol aimed at us.

  "Sam!" Gail cried. "Sam, please! You've got to believe me!"

  He laughed, over there, and pointed to his ear, indicating that he couldn't hear a word. She started to move, and he watched with great interest, clearly wondering if she'd really do it. I mean, it isn't every man who can get a beautiful woman to come crawling to his feet, proclaiming her love.

  I tried not to watch it. I mean, there are only three ways you can transport yourself any distance when your hands and feet are bound. You can roll like a log, you can squirm along on your side like a snake, or you can sit up and kind of skid yourself along on the seat of your pants. None of these modes of locomotion is anything you really want to see being employed by an attractive woman for whom you have respect and affection…

  But it held his attention, that was the main thing. I guess he'd had to take a certain amount of stuff from her in the past; she might play, but she had kept him in his place. Watching the rich, arrogant and lovely Mrs. Hendricks, bound hand and foot, making her way across the oil-stained floor at considerable expense to her dignity and clothing, was a real treat to him.

  The gunbarell drooped, as his eyes remained fixed on the slender, struggling, disheveled figure slowly drawing closer. It was time for me to reach under my shirt in back and peel the metal foil from the sharp edges of the trick belt buckle Mac had given me and cut the ropes on my wrists.

  I got hold of the buckle all right. I even found a purchase for my fingernails, but that was as far as it went. I didn't have the strength to take it from there.

  XXVI

  You understand, the buckle was made of steel with the edges honed to razor sharpness, and in order to keep it from disemboweling me every time I bent over, it was clad in metal foil, carefully decorated with an Indian pattern, so that it looked like the massive, ornate silver buckles offered to tourists on both sides of the border.

  In theory, it should have taken only an instant to strip off the foil and bring the edges into action, but the fellow who'd figured out the theory obviously hadn't taken into account the fact that the buckle might have to be used by a beat-up gent who'd had his hands tied tightly behind him-in cold weather-for several hours. Like so many of the nice stunts thought up in Washington, it just didn't work. The foil was too heavy.

  I scratched at it feebly, but it might as well have been soldered on-and the distance Gail had left to travel was getting shorter by the minute. Gunther was getting tired of the entertainment, anyway. I saw him speak, although I couldn't hear the words; then he rose and went to her. He set her on her feet and made a show of brushing her off magnanimously. He helped her hop to the stool on which he'd been sitting-I'd forgotten to mention that way of traveling, bound. You can hop, if your balance is good or you have someone to steady you.

  She was speaking, as she sat down. He listened to her for a moment. I don't know what line she was trying to feed him now, probably telling him how she'd yearned for him since childhood. I saw his face go angry. He lifted a hand and slapped her off the stool, looked down at her for a moment, frowning, glanced around suspiciously and came stalking over to check on Romero and me.

  I couldn't get that damn heavy foil off, and it was too late to cut myself loose, anyway, but I did have the belt unbuckled, ready to slip out of the loops. I didn't know what Romero was doing and I didn't really care. He seemed to be a nice enough guy when he wasn't behind the wheel of a car, but he'd been here a day or so without accomplishing much, and I don't have much faith in those security people, anyway. There wasn't any sense in counting on him. I'd have to do it by myself, if I could.

  As Gunther approached, holding the gun slackly, not really expecting trouble, I made a big demonstration of trying to rear up and meet him on my feet. He stopped and brought the pistol to bear, watching me warily. I lost my balance and did a comic back fall, landing heavily, hoping my boots weren't too big for the trick that came next, that is, if he gave me a chance to use it by looking away briefly. I have long arms, as well as long legs, and in tennis or Street shoes I can usually manage to get my feet between my bound wrists, bringing my hands in front of me. It's a handy stunt for a man in my line of work, and I'd practiced it from time to time, but never in winter clothes with boots on.

  I waited, acting jarred by the fall. Gail had struggled up behind Gunther, but much too far away to reach him. She tried a couple of hops in his direction and fell painfully. He glanced around and laughed, and then I heard somebody shout over the pounding motor noises-and there was Romero on his feet, hopping like a kangaroo straight at Gunther.

  Gunther turned. The gun came up, but Romero didn't stop. It was a brave thing, but it was no time for me to be watching the show on the screen; I had business to attend to. I was dragging my wrists over my boots, losing plenty of skin, as the gun went off; then I was on my feet, grabbing the belt and pulling it clear. I heard the bullet hit, and saw Romero kind of hunch up and fall, but I had my weapon ready. It's best used as a sort of murderous brass knucks, with the leather wrapped around the fist and the buckle out, but my hands were tied, and I needed more range than that to reach my man, anyway.

  Like most novices
at murder, he had to admire his handiwork briefly. He couldn't just shoot one guy and turn to deal with the next, he had to watch the first one fall. Maybe he wasn't quite sure of his marksmanship; maybe he enjoyed seeing him drop. I had plenty of time to get set, and I got him as he turned.

  I raised both arms and swung the heavy buckle at the end of the strap. It sang through the air like one of those Japanese noisemakers you whirl on a string. It caught him just right, squarely across the face, and with that much power behind it, the foil made no difference at all. I couldn't have done better, or worse, with a machete.

  He lost the gun and staggered backward, screaming, covering his face with his hands. I took another hop and cut again, laying his hands open. I stood over him as he went down, using the belt as a flail until he no longer moved or yelled. Unfortunately, he had only fainted. The buckle hadn't cut deeply. But there were a few things to be attended to before I finished the job; besides, I preferred to do it without witnesses-particularly official government witnesses like Romero. Mac had specified a smooth, discreet and competent job, remember?

  I hopped over to the little man, lying doubled up on the floor.

  "How bad, Dad?" I shouted over the steady noise of the big engine.

  He raised his head with an effort. "Just a scratch," he said.

  "Yeah," I shouted. "I know those little.32 caliber scratches. Hold this one for me."

  I sat down beside him and gave him the buckle to hold. There was no more trouble with the foil. Gunther had already helped peel it back here and there; I got the rest of it off without any trouble. Then I cut myself loose, hands and feet, and did the same for Romero. I went over and got Gunther's pistol. One shot had been fired from it, but he had extra cartridges in his pocket.

  When I got back, Romero was sitting up. His face was even pastier-looking, under the dirt, than it had been.

  "What's the time?" he yelled. "My watch stopped yesterday."

  "Ten minutes of ten," I said, "according to this one, but I don't guarantee it."

  "That gives us," he said, "just ten minutes to get over there and stop them."

  "Us?" I said. "I came for this jerk and I've got him right here. I've lost nothing in any churches."

  He looked startled; then he looked outraged and angry. "You crummy bastard," he shouted, "doesn't it matter to you that people are going to get killed, people this country can't afford to lose?"

  I grinned at him. "The way Naldi talked, there'll be more damage than that if they're allowed to go through with the damn test. Wegmann's doing us all a big favor." I let him stew a moment longer; then I held out the little gun. "Can you shoot one of these things? First, can you walk?"

  "Don't worry about me," he said, getting to his feet.

  "Amigo," I said, "about people who try to run me off mountain roads, my worry-quotient is infinitesimal. Five minutes from now you can fall down dead and I'll never miss you. But in the meantime, can you knock that marksman out of the tower before he gets more than one running shot at me?"

  He looked at me f or a moment. Then he grimaced. "I thought you said… Ah, hell. I'll do the running. You shoot."

  "You can hardly stand up," I pointed out. "Besides, a runt like you'd bog down in the snow. I've got more road clearance. Let's hope he's a lousy shot at moving targets. I'll head so he has to expose himself to take a bead. Get him when he makes his try. Okay?"

  He took the nickel-plated pistol. "With this? Well, if it won't shoot that far, maybe I can throw it. What's the time now?"

  I took my watch off and gave it to him. "You're so nervous about the time, you keep track of it. Give me a minute, first, while I tie up my specimen."

  "Make it thirty seconds," he said.

  I used the odds and ends of rope to do a reasonable job on Gunther, who still didn't seem very interested in the proceedings. Espionage and sabotage are not our concern, Mac had said. I had no business at all haring off to make a target of myself, leaving my job unfinished. It was an inexcusable neglect of duty, a regrettable display of sloppy humanitarianism, or something, and I felt pretty good as I finished tying the knots and got to my feet. A man's got to p it every now and then.

  "Want a Band-Aid or something before we go?" I asked Romero.

  He shook his head. He seemed to be waiting for me to attend to something else. When I frowned at him questioningly, he gestured towards Gail.

  I said, "Don't be silly. I told you about her. Come on.'

  He looked startled. I saw Gail's eyes go wide. She may not have caught the words from where she lay, still tightly bound, but she got the meaning all right. I was surprised at both of them. What I was doing with Romero was a breach of orders and a display of poor judgment; I certainly wasn't going to compound it by turning loose a female who'd already betrayed me once-a woman who, even if her loyalties were in the right place now, had no training, no experience, and could only get in the way.

  I mean, even looking at it from her point of view, she was safer right there, tied up to keep her out of trouble and mischief. The fact that she'd given us a hand just now didn't buy her any voting stock in the corporation.

  I turned my back on her and went to the door. It all went like clockwork from there. I went leaping through the snow like a gazelle; the rifleman leaned out and got his shot but missed, and Romero, using the doorjamb of the hut for a rest, got a two-handed grip on the little revolver and picked him off like a pipe in a shooting gallery. The sniper swayed against the railing up there. The rifle slipped out of his hands and came down butt first into the snow at the base of the tower.

  This was a little bonus I hadn't expected. I dropped the belt I was carrying for want of a better weapon, grabbed up the rifle, worked the bolt and was ready when the church door opened. Romero was ready, too. The man in the doorway, hit twice, never even twitched as he fell.

  I went in over his body. A second man fired and made a run for the tower stairway. I fired from the hip and missed; I never can get used to a rifle in close-range work. Romero, coming in behind me, shot at the disappearing legs and-from the sound of the yelp-nicked one of them. The little man could shoot. I looked at the bank of instruments along the wall and raised the rifle butt. Romero caught my arm.

  "No," he said. There was a thoughtful look on his face. "Not that way."

  Somebody up in the tower took a shot downward through the rotten roof. The bullet hit the dirt floor behind us. We moved closer to the instrument board. More shots were fired, all misses. I guess they were afraid of scrambling their own circuits with a misplaced bullet.

  "Make up your mind, amigo," I said.

  Romero's face was greenish white. I'd never seen a live man look so ready for burial. I remembered that I owed him an apology for some derogatory thoughts I'd had about security men. A few little guys like this made up for a lot of Peytons. He slipped his hand under his waistband, feeling around in an absent way and brought it out with blood on it. Well, I'd already guessed that. When deer, elk or man hunches up like that when shot, it's always in the guts.

  "You've got your job," he said. "I've got mine, to protect…" He stopped, as pain hit him. I guess the numbness was wearing off. "To apprehend…"

  "Sure," I said. "Well, if we smash this thing, we protect. We can apprehend later."

  He shook his head. "Wegmann talked about it," he said, looking at the rows of knobs and switches. "He told me… he told me… He was proud of it. I told you that."

  "Yes," I said. Somebody took another shot through the roof and missed again. "You told me."

  "He showed me around… I don't know just what we'd have to cut or smash to make absolutely sure… A lot of it's only for monitoring. There's only one thing… one thing…" He drew a cautious breath. "Hell, I'm wandering. Get out of here, fast. You've got about five minutes."

  "Wegmann?"

  Gunther might be my job, but still I didn't feel right about leaving Wegmann.

  "Give me the rifle," Romero said. "I can hold him in the tower long enough, until
…" He grimaced with pain. "He'll be taken care of. I give you my word. They'll all be taken care of. I know just how to do it. Just run like hell and leave it to me."

  I said, "It sounds like an attractive proposition, Senor Romero."

  "Mister," he said.

  "Sure," I said. "Mister."

  "Get clear," he said. "As far as you can. See you in hell or somewhere."

  I ran. I mean it was his job, and he talked as if he knew what he was about. I had my own work to do. Somebody took a couple of shots at me from the tower, but it takes a damn good pistol shot to hit a running target at any range. I hurled myself through the door of the generator hut and brought up short.

  Gail was still on the floor, approximately where I'd left her, still bound. By her hands lay a small penknife, open. Beside the penknife lay some pieces of rope, but that was all. There was no sign of Gunther. I went quickly to the door, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. There were, however, some marks in the snow. I studied these for a moment and saw where they led. I grinned slowly.

  I went back to Gail and cut her loose. She sat up and started to rub her wrists, not looking at me. I pulled her to her feet. For a tall and lovely lady, she looked remarkably like a truant kid, standing there defiantly, her face filthy with dust and tears, her sweater grimy and awry, her silly sexy pants smeared with dirt and grease from the engine-room floor.

  "So you helped cut him loose," I said. "And he left you here to rot, just like I did. Smart man. He knows you, too."

  "Matt, I-"

  "Never mind," I said. "Now we run. Make for the truck and pay no attention to those jerks in the tower. They'll just be shooting at us with pistols, very inferior weapons. Think nothing of it. We've only got a couple of minutes, so we'll do our praying later. Okay?"

  They did their best with what they had, but it wasn't enough. I saw Gail falter once as a bullet tugged at her sleeve; I had a bad moment when she fell headlong, but that was just a slip in the snow. She was up again and running instantly. I got a hole in one pants leg. Then we were out of pistol range. Laboring towards the truck at a slower rate, we saw bloodstains in the snow ahead of us. There were also stains on the white camouflage canvas covering the truck.