The Infiltrators

by Donald Hamilton

  Madeleine looked a little surprised. I was aware of her gray eyes following me questioningly as I picked up the sling I’d discarded to eat and put it back on. She didn’t speak until I reached the door.

  “Matt?” The question that had been in her eyes was in her voice also. Then she came quickly across the room to me. “Was I so obvious, my dear?”

  “I got the message,” I said. “Just a friendly dinner in front of the fire for old times’ sake. But no cozy shared bedrooms, no slinky negligees, no seductive smiles. You made it pretty clear: I was not to take you for granted now because of anything that had happened between us in the past. All seigneurial privileges revoked, right?”

  She licked her lips. “I didn’t mean… Oh, God, you must think I’m an ungrateful bitch!”

  I said, “Let’s leave gratitude out of this.”

  She spoke breathlessly: “I’ve been regimented for so long, Matt! I… I’ve belonged to other people for so long. They took me away from me; they left me no say in what was to become of me. For years I’ve had no rights in myself, in my own body, do you understand? And now… now at last I’m free enough and strong enough to take myself back from all the people who’ve owned me and controlled me. Including you. Even you. I don’t want you to think for a moment that I don’t appreciate—”

  “To hell with appreciate,” I said. “I think it’s swell. Just put me on the list for when you’re ready to be courted properly, Mrs. Ellershaw.”

  She smiled slowly. “Right at the top,” she said. “Thank you, Matt. Thank you for being so understanding.”

  Tired though I was, I took quite a while to get to sleep. Being understanding always gives me insomnia.

  13

  It’s roughly five hundred miles from Tucson to Santa Fe. With an early-morning start, we were passing Albuquerque, sixty miles south of our destination, by three in the afternoon, with the Rio Grande off to our left and the Sandia Mountains, the steep west face of them, towering on our right. They once flew an airliner into that five-thousand-foot wall of rock and had a hell of a time getting to it afterwards; but of course there wasn’t much left to get to.

  Half an hour later we came up over the top of the great black escarpment called La Bajada—the descent or drop, obviously named by folks traveling the other way—and saw Santa Fe ahead, nesting in the foothills of the tall Sangre de Cristo mountains, the southernmost extension of the Rockies proper. I glanced at the woman behind the wheel, who was showing no signs of weariness although she’d been driving since daylight. She was costumed for her new role: still another Madeleine Rustin Ellershaw for me to get used to. The girl was a real chameleon.

  There had been the proud young lady lawyer so long ago, and more recently the beaten ex-convict, and the comfortably unspectacular and undemanding lady who’d watched TV with me in the hospital, and the taut, self-possessed, suntanned woman who’d greeted me with some reserve upon my return from Washington. Now I had a defiantly sexy tight-pants broad on my hands, in too-snug jeans that weren’t very clean, and a cheap white knitted shirt that was little more than a glorified T-shirt, also very tight, so that her fine breasts flaunted themselves arrogantly through the thin, strained material. No brassiere, of course: nipples boldly on display. There were high-heeled sandals at one end of her and a considerable amount of makeup at the other, particularly around the eyes.

  It was sleazy, provocative kid stuff in a way; and the fact that she was very obviously not a kid but a mature and handsome woman—boldly handsome now, with that blond-streaked hair—made it all the more disturbing. I hated to see her do this to herself, but then, as she’d said, she wasn’t dressing for me. She glanced at me with a little half-smile as she drove us towards the distant city we’d taken so long to reach.

  “Don’t look so disapproving, darling,” she said. “You should be getting used to it by now.”

  I said, “I’m grateful for small favors. At least you didn’t go in for the floppy pantaloons or baggy knee-britches and bloomers they all seem to be wearing this year.”

  She laughed. “After all the work I did getting my ass trimmed down to size, I wasn’t about to drape the sleek new femme fatale in those lousy manure sacks even if they are fashionable at the moment. Anyway, I’m not supposed to be fashionable. I’m supposed to be a bitter female ex-con angrily rejecting the wealthy fashionable world she used to know before it has a chance to reject her.” She drew a long, rather shaky breath, and studied the view ahead. “There it is!” she said softly. “Santa Fe. There were… times when I thought I’d never see it again. And times when I didn’t really want to, when all I wanted was to crawl into a hole somewhere far away where nobody’d recognize me.” She grimaced. “Well, it’s supposed to be very good for the character to face up to things. I should have one hell of a character by the time all this is over. But…”

  “But what?” I asked when she hesitated.

  “Stay close and hold my hand when I need it, please. It’s going to be rough; and even though I’ve had lots of practice, I don’t really know how much more humiliation I can take.”

  We spent the night in a convenient motel, one of the older ones just a few blocks from the city’s main plaza. It was a pleasant, rambling place with tree-shaded grounds, which hadn’t changed very much in all the years I’d known it. In the morning I couldn’t help remembering that, long ago, as a respectable freelance photojournalist, I’d occasionally brought my wife to dinner in the restaurant where Madeleine and I were now breakfasting. Afterwards, leaving the car parked in front of my unit, we hiked the few blocks downtown to keep the appointment I’d made by phone when we got in the previous afternoon—Madeleine had also called her parents’ lawyer and set up a meeting after lunch.

  We had to pause briefly on the way to our destination for her to gape, aghast, at a tall new bank building—well, tall for the town. Originally a picturesque southwestern desert village of low adobe houses, often little more than mud huts, Santa Fe keeps fighting to stay that way, or at least stay looking that way; but this was a relative skyscraper.

  “I didn’t know they were allowed to do that!” Madeleine protested.

  I glanced at her, a little amused but also rather touched. In spite of what had been done to her here, in spite of where she’d spent the past eight years, in spite of the indignities and dangers that undoubtedly lay ahead of her, she could still be distressed by what had happened to her quaint old hometown during her enforced absence.

  “I gather nobody else did, either, until they did it,” I said. “Come on, let’s go say hello to the cops.”

  The police station was just across the street from the new bank. The shabby, two-story, territorial-style building—meaning that the pseudo-adobe walls were topped with brick—hadn’t altered much in spite of the changes in its surroundings. I felt Madeleine grow tense as she approached it, and thought she was simply experiencing a recurrence of the old prison fear of uniformed authority that she’d conquered once. Then I realized that this was probably the building to which, expensively dressed and bejeweled for a festive dinner with her husband, unable to believe what was happening to her, the young Mrs. Ellershaw had been brought under arrest with those things shining on her wrists to be rudely questioned and thrown into a cell on the last day ever of the good life she’d once known.

  But that would have been the wing that housed the city jail. We entered the administration wing instead, and after a little wait outside the office barricade were admitted to the presence of the Chief of Police, Manuel Cordoba, a compact, dark-faced, uniformed man with a mustache, whose eyes widened slightly with recognition, and some shock, at the sight of Madeleine. She was still in yesterday’s cheap and provocative costume, a little more grubby for a day’s wear, but since spring mornings are chilly at Santa Fe’s altitude of seven thousand feet she was also wearing, open, an inexpensive ski jacket she’d bought while costuming herself for the part she planned to play here. The quilted garment was a strong, almost luminous, shad
e of violet.

  I saw her take note of the chief’s stare. Her lips grew tight and narrow. She’d know, of course, that it wasn’t that Chief Cordoba didn’t see lots of women in jeans, tight and loose, clean and dirty; in fact it seemed likely that a large percentage of the females he encountered in the line of business were jean-clad ladies. But he was obviously recalling the well-groomed young professional woman whom, almost a decade ago, he’d undoubtedly met in the course of his normal police duties.

  I said, “You may remember Mrs. Ellershaw, Chief Cordoba.”

  He nodded. “I remember.”

  I said, “Having served her full sentence, Mrs. Ellershaw is not required to report to the authorities, but we thought it best to let you know she was in town.”

  He nodded. “We were notified of her release from the Federal Correctional Institution at Fort Ames. That was a couple of months ago, wasn’t it? I thought she must have decided not to come back to Santa Fe after… what happened here. But since all formalities have been complied with, it is, as you say, no official concern of mine as long as her presence creates no law-enforcement problems here.”

  It wasn’t exactly a gracious welcome, and I felt Madeleine draw a sharp breath, preparing to speak; but I forestalled her.

  “That’s just the trouble, Chief,” I said. “Somebody’s trying to kill her; presumably somebody who apparently feels more strongly than you do about having her come home.” I touched the sling supporting my right arm. “I stopped one bullet aimed at her the hard way, but there’s no telling where the next one will go.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you wish from me?”

  “Nothing,” I said. I looked at him hard. “I mean that literally, Chief.”

  He studied me for quite a long time. “I remember you, too, of course, Mr. Helm,” he said at last. “You used to live here. We try to keep track of our more prominent citizens.”

  “I wasn’t very prominent,” I said. “Just another camera snapper and typewriter pounder. The town is full of them, along with the artists and craftsmen who seem to gravitate here.”

  He said, “That may be, but at one time you gained a certain prominence in our records, Mr. Helm. You may not remember me, but when I was a younger officer there was a kidnapping here. A small child, not yet walking, snatched from her crib. Name: Elizabeth Margaret Helm. Parents: Elizabeth and Matthew Helm. There were also two people killed at this time. A man was found shot several times with a certain .22 pistol. He was quite dead. The weapon was found beside a woman who’d been very badly abused, also dead. Quite coincidental, of course; nothing to do with the abduction case. It was officially announced that, although she’d received injuries that were crippling and disfiguring, the woman had somehow managed to reach a gun and shoot up the insanely jealous lover who had hurt her so badly. He had staggered away to die. She had then, unwilling to live with what she had done, and what had been done to her, turned the gun upon herself. That is what appeared in the newspapers.”

  I was aware that Madeleine had glanced at me sharply; she was now listening very carefully.

  I said, “But the papers were wrong.”

  Chief Cordoba nodded. “We had been asked to cooperate by disposing of the case in this manner. The request had come from Washington.” He shrugged. “The kidnapping of a small child is an inexcusable crime; we were willing to overlook a few… irregularities in the recovery procedure. Actually the man, one of the kidnappers, had been deliberately shot to death by a certain individual to keep him from interfering in what was to happen or endangering the kidnapped child. The woman, his female accomplice—I believe the woman was in fact the brains of the operation; the man merely served as muscle—had then been skillfully and ruthlessly interrogated by the same, er, mysterious individual. Shortly, we got a telephone call asking that police officers with personal knowledge of a certain barrio should go there circumspectly and free the little girl from a certain address. I was one of those officers.”

  I said, “I remember, Chief. And my wife and I were very grateful for your efficiency, and still are. At least I know I am, and I’m sure she is, although I haven’t seen her lately.”

  He nodded. “I did understand that Mrs. Helm was no longer, er, Mrs. Helm. In fact, she left Santa Fe within the year, with the children, did she not? And the agency in Washington that had requested our cooperation was one with which you had formerly been connected, wasn’t it? It is my understanding that, after your divorce, you rejoined that organization and now reside in Washington, although you still spend your vacations here from time to time.”

  “It is a pleasant city,” I said. “And you are well informed.”

  “And you ask me to do nothing to protect Mrs. Ellershaw?”

  Abruptly, we were back in the present, after a tour through the painful past.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Protection has already been arranged. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation, Chief, in case anything happens. I’m carrying, and so are some agents who are working with me on this. I’d like to be sure that your officers don’t get, well, officious, if there’s any trouble. Here.” I took a card from my shirt pocket left-handed and laid it on the desk. “If you want confirmation from Washington, call that number, please.”

  He didn’t touch the card. “Do I gather that there’s more involved here than the threat to Mrs. Ellershaw?”

  “That’s a question I’m not permitted to answer,” I said. “Officially, I’m here on behalf of the United States government to investigate the possibility that the lady’s civil rights may have been very seriously violated; that she may even be innocent of the crime against her country of which she was convicted. The attempts on her life—there have been others—tend to support this hypothesis. It seems possible, now, that somebody had reason to want her put out of circulation for a long time and took steps to arrange for her false arrest and conviction; somebody who, now that she’s free again, is still afraid of her and wants her silenced permanently.”

  Cordoba hesitated. “As a policeman I must point out—you will excuse me, Mrs. Ellershaw—that there could be other, less favorable, explanations.”

  Madeleine spoke for the first time since entering the office. Her voice was harsh: “I know! If there’s an innocent explanation and a guilty one, I know damn well which one a fucking copper will go for every time! God, don’t I know!”

  Chief Cordoba’s eyes narrowed again, as much with surprise as her coarse way of speaking as with anger. I put my hand on Madeleine’s arm.

  “Easy, easy!” I spoke to the chief: “I must ask you to excuse her. She’s under considerable strain; it’s tough on her, coming home like this after being… away for so many years.”

  Madeleine said, “Damn you, Helm, don’t talk about me like I was a nut in a shrink’s office! I’m a damn sight saner, particularly about cops, than back when I was an innocent career girl entertaining this weird notion that the law and the people with badges had been put there to protect me. God, what a laugh! If I hadn’t been so fucking naive, I might not have let the bastards rob me of eight years of my life.”

  I said sharply, “Mrs. Ellershaw, the chief and his department had nothing whatever to do with what happened to you. Don’t take it out on him.”

  Chief Cordoba said quietly, “It is all right. I understand. But I do think the… lady should remember that it was a federal case from start to finish. We were never involved.”

  Madeleine said, more quietly now, quite softly in fact, “That’s perfectly true, Chief. God, how true it is! My husband was lured from our house right here in your town, kidnapped, and murdered; and you and your department were never a bit concerned, never a bit involved. If you had been, if you’d solved that crime as you should have, I’d never have gone to prison, would I? So don’t try to pass the whole buck to the feds; and don’t expect me to love and respect you, any of you, after the way you let Roy’s murderers go free. But I bet you’re hell on kids smoking pot.”

  That s
tung him. “The rumor was very carefully investigated and nothing was ever found to substantiate it!”

  I said quickly, “We’re wasting your time with ancient history, Chief. But there’s one more thing I’d like to bring to your attention before we go.”

  When he spoke, after a little pause, his voice was stiff and resentful: “What is that, Mr. Helm?”

  “I must advise you that we’re not the only federal agency involved.”

  “I see.”

  I went on: “Naturally, the organization that investigated Mrs. Ellershaw’s alleged crime, and supplied the evidence on the basis of which she was prosecuted, isn’t going to be pleased when it learns of our activities. They have, shall we say, a vested interest in Mrs. Ellershaw’s guilt. They may ask for your cooperation in, well, making the investigation tough for us. That will put you on a fairly awkward spot. May I suggest a policy of benevolent neutrality? Let us feds fight it out, and keep your own department from getting mixed up in it. That’s what I meant when I said I’d like you to do nothing.”

  He said, “Go on, Mr. Helm. I’m listening.”

  “The Office of Federal Security is a fairly big agency these days,” I said. “It seems to have considerable clout, so there may be some pressure. I hope you will resist it. There will be no pressure from me, from us. However, if you call that phone number, you’ll find that my instructions come from fairly high up, I think high enough to satisfy you that your best bet is to play this one strictly hands-off.” I took Madeleine’s arm and started to turn away.

  “Mr. Helm.”

  I looked back. “Yes, Chief.”