The Infiltrators

by Donald Hamilton

  I saw two men close in on her as she reached the door, and accompany her inside.

  6

  I drew a long breath, walking back to the table to pick up the check the waitress had left there. The trouble was, I knew the men I’d seen—although I couldn’t remember the name of one of them—and they were not the kind of men I’d expected to have to deal with on this mission. It was a complication I hadn’t been warned about and didn’t need.

  I paused briefly to drain the last of my coffee. I moved quite naturally, I hoped, in case somebody was watching, to the cashier’s desk. We’d slept late enough that the scattering of winter tourists had mostly all breakfasted and blasted off along the highway, east and west. The place was almost empty, and the money lady had retired to the kitchen. I’d already checked us out at the motel desk, so I couldn’t put the meal on the bill. I rang a little plink-plink bell, and presently the woman came out to work the credit-card machine. Having rung up the sale, she went right back out again. So far, so good.

  And where was the takeout crew? They wouldn’t grab Madeleine without making provisions for neutralizing her escort. Most likely they were waiting to catch me outside, as they had her.

  I located the lighted RESTROOMS sign, and walked quickly that way. It was a dark, blind hallway with a payphone cubicle just inside on the left, followed by the two doors. One of the discriminatory sanitation arrangements, I noted. Any kind of MEN, gentlemen or bums, could use the male facilities, but only superior-type LADIES were permitted in the female establishment. Women of lower social status were presumably sent outside to squat in the bushes. With a quick, guilty look around, I slipped into the LADIES’ chamber, the first beyond the phone.

  Waiting, hoping that none of the female help or remaining female customers would need to go, I extracted from a hidden inside pocket of my jacket the little drug kit we usually carry on duty, a new model this year. The old-fashioned hypos they used to give us had been pretty slow to load, and the needles had tended to snap off under stress before the full dose had been transmitted to the patient, unless he was first tranquilized with a gun butt. The new gadget was cartridge-loading and spring-fired. I selected one of the green capsules—the red and orange ones kill—and charged the little squirt-machine and cocked it and waited, gun and hypo-gun ready in left and right hands respectively.

  They held out for only about ten minutes, counting from the time Madeleine had run out of there. Then they got nervous about me and came in after me. Two of them. Holding the restroom door slightly ajar, I heard them enter the restaurant and make a quick check of both public rooms, the little coffee shop where we’d breakfasted, and the larger dining room, now unoccupied, where we’d had dinner the night before. I let the john door sigh shut automatically. It seemed unlikely that they’d be dumb enough to charge into the kitchen leaving the men’s room uninspected behind them. They weren’t.

  I heard them hurry past my door—excuse me, the ladies’ door—and I heard a whispered consultation in the little hallway. Then I heard the men’s door being opened cautiously. In those cramped quarters, I guessed, only one man would actually go in; the other would wait out in the corridor as backup. I gave them a slow three-count and elbowed my door aside and stepped out there.

  A handsome and neatly dressed young fellow with a revolver in his hand turned belatedly to meet the threat, but he was right-handed and his gun was on the far side of his body. There was no chance in the world of his swinging himself around far enough to bring it to bear in time.

  “Federal government,” I said. “You’re under arrest. Drop the gun, now!”

  Shock showed on his good-looking face, as I’d known it would. He was federal government also, whatever that might mean. He arrested people; nobody arrested him. But the .38 in my left hand spoke a convincing language of its own, and I heard his firearm drop to the carpeted floor. While he was still in a state of confusion, opening his mouth to protest against this dreadful reversal of the normal and decent order of things, I stepped forward and slammed the little automatic hypo into his rump, which was still half turned toward me. The mechanism fired itself with a springy, clicking sound. Real KGB stuff.

  He’d half raised his hands out of respect for my weapon. Now he reached down and back instinctively to investigate the stinging pain of the injection. His eyes got a vague and puzzled look and his mouth went slack.

  “What the hell’s going on out here?”

  The door to the men’s room opened to reveal Number Two, practically a replica of Number One except for an inch or two more height, ten or fifteen pounds more weight, and a bushy blond mustache. His face changed as he saw the revolver in my left hand, aimed directly at him. I can shoot lefty if I have to, pretty accurately. Either he’d read that in my dossier or he was not a gambling man. He made no effort to raise the weapon at his side.

  “Drop it!” I said. “You’re under arrest for interfering with a federal officer in the performance of his duties.”

  There was a distraction, as the first one suddenly slumped to the floor with a little sigh. His partner started forward, and checked himself.

  I said to him, “You have less than three seconds left to live, amigo. If you’re still holding that sidearm when I stop talking… Ah, that’s better. Now grab your friend and haul him inside and set him on the john. He’s all right. He’ll sleep four hours and wake up frisky as a lamb. Oh, just one little detail. If either of you is packing an ankle gun or neck knife or other backup weapon and you feel compelled to use it, be my guest. Just remember, it’s been tried before and I’m still here. Now get him in there.”

  I stepped back to let him get at the inert body and gathered up the fallen firearms as I followed him into the tiled room. I locked the door behind us while he was setting his friend on the toilet. He emerged and faced me truculently.

  “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing,” he said, “but I can tell you—”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “I know. You’re an important agent of the Office of Federal Security and I can’t do this to you. Well, I’m an important agent of the Federal… well, never mind the exact title, and you can’t do this to me. Which makes us even, and I’m holding the gun. Who’s the guy with Bennett? I ought to remember his name but it’s slipped my mind.”

  “You go straight to hell!”

  I shook my head sadly. “You try my patience, boy. That was Bennett, wasn’t it, who just grabbed Mrs. Ellershaw so rudely and hustled her into her room? The OFS top man, your boss. I had some dealings with him a few years back, in the Bahamas and Florida, and I couldn’t forget that Roman-emperor profile and clipped hair. What the hell are you stupid bastards trying to pull, anyway, muscling in on me like this with guns waving? The lady is under my protection.”

  “Lady, hell!” There was an ugly sneer in the blond man’s voice. “You call that a lady? Shit, maybe once she had a bit of class, but anybody can see that eight years in the joint have knocked it all out of her, the smart-ass bitch. She’s just another cheap jailbird now. Serves her right, too, all the fine airs she put on when she was first arrested. Hell, she was even kind of a good-looking wench back then, but you wouldn’t know it now, huh?”

  It always amazes me, the pleasure some people take in seeing other people humbled, particularly people better than they are. Looking hard at my captive, I realized that he wasn’t as young as his partner or as young as he looked; those handsome blond hunks of beef are deceptive. He could have encountered Madeleine Rustin Ellershaw at the time of her arrest and trial. He could have a personal reason for the vicious satisfaction he obviously felt at seeing what the prison years had made of the proud and lovely young woman he’d known.

  I asked softly, “What’s your name?”

  He hesitated, and said, “Dellenbach. Jim Dellenbach.”

  “Well, I’m very glad you said all that, Jim Dellenbach,” I said. “You can’t imagine how glad I am. Here I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t have to hurt you, a nice
young fellow government employee like you. But now I’m just wishing you’d give me an excuse, and it won’t have to be much of an excuse. Ill ask you again: the name of the heavyset dark man with Bennett?”

  He closed his lips stubbornly and stared at me, silent. I sighed and looked down at the arsenal I was holding. I’d already pocketed the trick hypo. Now I stuck my own weapon back into its waistband-holster. I dropped the unconscious agent’s revolver into my jacket pocket. That left me holding Dellenbach’s gun, a rather foolish firearm: a hefty .357 Magnum with a two-inch barrel. Since the .357 cartridge requires a reasonable barrel length in which to develop its impressive power—two inches isn’t nearly enough to burn all that powder efficiently—the guy was putting up with the ferocious recoil and muzzle blast to get little better than ordinary .38 Special ballistics. Well, maybe he was one of those who get a charge out of creating a lot of noise and confusion regardless of results. I shook my head mournfully, and looked at him for a moment longer, and slammed his weapon backhand across his face, raking him with the front sight from ear to nose. He reeled back against the washbowl, clapping both hands to the injury.

  I said gently, “The question was: What is the name of the man with Mr. Bennett?”

  Dellenbach hesitated, his eyes wide and shocked above his bloody fingers. I raised the weapon to strike again. He flinched away and shook his head quickly, defensively.

  “Burdette.” His voice was muffled. “Phil Burdette.”

  “That’s right, Burdette, how could I forget?” I drew a long breath, watching him. “Well, we seem to be establishing a useful relationship, Mr. Dellenbach, but wasn’t that a foolish way to earn yourself a lifetime scar? I hope it’s clear to you that I’m perfectly happy to chop you to bloody ribbons, regardless of what exquisitely important government organization you happen to work for. You see, the government organization I work for thinks it’s pretty important, too, and it doesn’t appreciate interference by other agencies. Do you remember one of your people named Lawson?”

  “Lawson was murdered by a bunch of terrorists in Miami a couple of years ago—”

  I said, “And then there was the one about Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf; and I’m sure you believe that one, too. Ask Burdette how Lawson really died. He was there; he knows. Lawson made the mistake of trying to kill me; never mind why. I’m trying to keep you from making the same mistake. Remember, you and your friends came charging after me with drawn guns; I didn’t start this. Now grab some of those paper towels and mop yourself off and try to check the bleeding a bit. Then well go out of here and visit the lady’s room, and you’ll say whatever needs to be said to get the door open. I’ll be holding your own weapon aimed at your back with the hammer cocked…”

  “For God’s sake, man!” he blurted. “That single action trigger pull is only two pounds!”

  “Then you’ll have to be very careful not to startle me, won’t you, Mr. Dellenbach?” I said. “Now grab a wad of clean towels and hold it to your face and let’s go.”

  A middle-aged couple in the coffee shop stared at us curiously as we went out, but I had the gun hidden from them and they decided it was just an unfortunate accident of some kind and went back to their corn flakes and coffee. We crossed the parking area, where the little Mazda now stood almost alone, and paused on the covered porch of the motel at the door with the right number.

  “If there are any special signals, give them,” I said softly.

  “No signals, I swear it!”

  “Then just knock and say you and your partner have me all sewed up, no problem.”

  He hesitated, and knocked. A voice from inside, which I recognized, asked a question. He said, “It’s Dellenbach, Mr. Bennett. We got him, no sweat.”

  “Well, bring him in,” the voice said, and the doorknob turned.

  Dellenbach had to try it, of course. It was inevitable. He was big, strong, and a few years younger than I. He couldn’t just let himself be marched in there Trojan-horse fashion, a docile prisoner, with his face a humiliating, bloody mess, I touched him lightly with the gun barrel, his gun barrel, to give him his cue. I’d already let the hammer down silently so there’d be no accidental discharge. He didn’t know that, but it didn’t matter. He had to go for it if he died for it; and he did the routine pivot, the left arm slashing back to knock the gun aside and maybe grab it as he swung around to chop me down with the right. But I’d already raised the .357 out of easy reach and stepped well back. He was off balance and wide open. I just kicked him hard in the crotch as he came around to face me, shoving him backwards with my foot, hurling him against his chief, Bennett, so they both went down in the doorway.

  Then I was over them, past them, in the room, whirling right, gun ready, because Burdette was a pro and would be located where he could cover not only the outside door of Madeleine’s room but the connecting door to my room as well. I was vaguely aware of Madeleine herself, sitting on a chair to my left, but I had no time for her at the moment. Burdette was there, all right, but he was leaning calmly against the wall, hands in plain sight, empty. There was a tolerant smile on his heavy-featured face. He looked like a grown man watching the boys at play.

  “Burdette, shoot him, damn you!”

  “Easy, Mr. Bennett. Don’t pull a gun unless you want a goddamn massacre. That’s what he wants. That’s what he always wants.” Burdette sighed and looked at me. “Old Wild Matt Helm himself! It’s a wonder you keep on living. What did you do to that boy’s face?”

  I said, “I just pistol-whipped the loudmouthed creep a little, when he wouldn’t answer a civil question. Hi, Burdette. We’re a long way from that muddy canal in Miami. What the hell do you morons think you’re doing here, anyway? This is my assignment and Mrs. Ellershaw is my responsibility. I thought you learned hands off the last time we met. If not, I’ll be happy to repeat the lesson.”

  There was a little silence while Bennett picked himself up and brushed himself off. Dellenbach was curled up on the carpet, hugging himself and groaning. I looked at Madeleine at last, realizing that she had not moved during all the commotion. Rage went through me as I saw that in the brief time they’d had her they’d sent her all the way back to where she’d been yesterday morning: she was the dull, stony-faced, stony-eyed prison inmate once more. She’d even been slapped a bit. There were red marks on her face and a little trickle of blood had run from her left nostril to her upper, lip and was drying there. I knew she’d sit there unmoving until she was told to move elsewhere because, as she’d told me, she’d learned obedience well in that p-place where they’d had her.

  I swallowed hard. I’d felt a little guilt for the way I’d marked Dellenbach, although it had been necessary: if I hadn’t impressed him with my utter ruthlessness I’d probably have had to shoot him. Even as it was he’d wound up making his try, but only after he’d served my purpose. But now I wished I’d raked him a couple more times while I had the chance. And maybe kicked in a couple of his partner’s ribs just for the hell of it.

  I looked at Burdette, who showed some discomfort. I said, “Mrs. Ellershaw has paid her debt to society, whether a just or unjust debt we won’t go into here. What the hell gives you thugs the right to grab her and knock her around like this?”

  “She’s a convicted traitor to her country!” This was Bennett, coming forward. He was a lean, handsome man with that big bold nose; and I don’t suppose cutting your hair too short is any worse than growing it too long. It wasn’t his coiffure I had against him. There was a fanatic gleam in his eyes as he went on: “If it hadn’t been for the mushy sentimentality of all those women on the jury she’d have got the punishment she deserved: life imprisonment or the chair!”

  There was nothing in that worth discussing. I said, “We can call it off right now, if you like. You slapped my girl; I slapped your boy. The honors—if you want to call them that—are even. But the next one who raises a hand against the lady is going to lose it at the wrist. A promise. In fact she’s not to be harassed fur
ther in any way, for any reason. I may go as high as the elbow if you make me real mad.” I looked bleakly at Bennett. “Damn it, we went through all this when you tried to muscle in on my agency’s business once before! You got way out of line then, and you wound up losing a man and making me a formal apology. If you want to argue this one, call Washington; you know the number. But I warn you, he never pulls us off a job because of a little political pressure, and I might not come off it now even if he told me to.”

  I walked over to where Burdette stood and laid the .357 on the chair beside him. I took out the .38 I’d liberated from Dellenbach’s partner, still nameless, and put that neatly beside it. I looked at the heavyset dark-haired man for a moment, noting that he was showing a little gray here and there. Well, who wasn’t? We were the only truly experienced working pros in the room and we understood each other very well; and one day we might have to settle a few things between us, but because we respected each other we’d regret it however it turned out. I wheeled and walked over to Madeleine’s chair and put a hand on her shoulder.

  I said, “A speech, gentlemen. Listen closely now, this is important. I’m the big boar grizzly from the top of the mountain. I’m the old he-cougar from the head of the creek. When I raise my voice the avalanche warnings go up all along the Rockies from the Sangre de Cristos north. When I pound my chest the San Andreas Fault gets very nervous. And any sonofabitching creep who interferes with me in the line of duty—my duty, which at the moment involves protecting Mrs. Ellershaw from everybody, including jerks like you—or waves a gun at me from now on, will wind up in the hospital or the morgue, and I don’t care what kind of fancy badges or IDs the bastard carries. One of your boys is bleeding on the motel carpet over there, Bennett. Another is cluttering up the restaurant john. Burdette has their guns. Now pick them up and haul them to hell out of here and don’t let me fall over any of you again. Goodbye!”