“Greetings, doll,” I whispered. “Don’t say it. I goofed.”
She was tactful enough not to comment on that. “Your dog got away,” she said. “They tried to catch him, but they’d already scared him so badly he wouldn’t come near them.”
“Good for old Hank,” I said sourly. I was glad to hear of his escape, but I’d expended quite enough sympathy on him for one day. “How did they catch you?” I asked Libby.
“I ran up there right behind you when I heard him screaming. A man stepped out from behind a tree and put a hand over my mouth and a gun in my back. Afterward, he made me walk back down with him and pay for the gas and drive the truck up the hill so they could load you aboard without attracting attention. Darling, what are we going to do?”
“Could you tell which way we turned from the lodge?” I asked, ignoring her question because I had no answer to it.
“Yes, I can see pretty well out the front here. We’re still on the same highway, heading toward Anchorage.”
“How long have I been out? Specifically, how long have we been driving?”
“Well, I’m not in the best position to keep checking my wristwatch, but it’s only been a few minutes.”
“Who’s up front?”
“A couple of real characters. There’s a woman, plain and plump, in a plastic raincoat and green pants. Why is it that the fatter the fanny, the tighter the trousers? Then there’s a plumpish male type who looks as if he’d just stepped off a rainy city sidewalk. He’s even got galoshes on, for God’s sake!”
I said, “Be charitable. I think it’s a disguise. Who’s driving?”
“The man. The woman keeps rubbernecking to make sure we’re not setting fire to the bus or rolling out into the road.” A round, unpretty face I’d seen before appeared at the forward window of the camper, looking back at us suspiciously. When it had vanished, Libby said, “You see what I mean.”
“Keep talking,” I said. “How many more?”
“It’s a real caravan, darling. There’s an older couple, middle-aged, driving a big car—”
I asked wearily, “It wouldn’t be a Lincoln, by any chance?” I was remembering the large, slow-moving sedan I’d passed and repassed on the Haines cutoff. It seemed likely, now, that after seeing me on my way, the tourist-appearing couple had turned back in pursuit of the lab truck. Judging by this morning’s events, the pursuit had been highly successful.
“Yes,” Libby said, “yes, it’s a Lincoln. And then there’s a kind of boxy delivery van. The guy who gives the orders is driving that, a man they all call Mr. Wood.”
“Mr. Wood, eh?” I kept my voice casual, wondering if the boys in the van were still alive, and if so, for how long. Well, they weren’t my boys. “What does Mr. Wood look like?” I asked.
He wasn’t very subtle, I reflected, or maybe he was just arrogant. Maybe he thought nobody knew enough German, up here in the benighted wilderness, to remember the English translation of “Holz.”
“He’s kind of a tallish man,” Libby said. “Not a beanpole like you, but probably about the same weight, since he’s broader. He’s got metal-rimmed glasses, slick black patent-leather hair, and a silly little black mustache, but I have a hunch there’s some dye involved. Nobody’s got hair that black. And I don’t think his real name is Wood. It’s probably Rubinsky or Kubicek or Ivanoff or something. I know a Slav when I see one.”
It was my man, all right. She had sharp eyes, or she’d been told exactly what to say in order to gain, or maintain, my confidence, probably the latter. The fact that Holz’s name wasn’t Holz at all was fairly common knowledge, but we’d never learned the real name and likely never would. Maybe he’d forgotten it himself; he’d been Hans Holz so long. They often go in for Teutonic or Anglo-Saxon labels, I guess because these days, over here at least, people tend to look a little more closely, in cases involving security, at anyone named Vladimir, Ivan, or Olga.
Thinking along these lines, I found myself wondering just what might be the real name of the lady known locally as Elizabeth Meredith.
She asked, “Do you know him, darling?”
I shrugged. “Not under that name. Do you?”
“No, but I can tell just by looking that he’s not a very nice man. In fact, he scares hell out of me. Darling, what are we going to do?”
I still had no answer to that question, and if I’d had one I wouldn’t have confided it to her. I asked, not because it mattered, but because I’d be expected to be concerned about it, “What about the item I gave you to take care of?”
“It’s safe. They didn’t get it. They must think the one the dog was wearing is the right one.”
“Where is it safe?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll tell you right now. I mean, that way, if things get tough, you can say quite honestly that you don’t know.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s sweet of you. But suppose we get separated; how do I find it?”
“You’ll find it,” she said cryptically, smiling a bit. “You’ll need some help, but you’ll find it.”
“Sure.”
I didn’t press it. Except for the material I’d picked up this morning, which might or might not be genuine, the collar wasn’t worth much to anyone. Certainly, it had served my purpose: it had brought me within reach of the man I’d come to Alaska to find—not under the most favorable circumstances, granted, but still within reach.
I was no longer in the dog-collar business, and if anyone really yearned for the lousy strap, I could probably locate it, assuming that she’d really hidden it where she’d hinted. There was, after all, only one place she’d been where I, a man, would need help to find it: the room marked ladies, back at the filling station.
The woman up front looked in on us once more, giving us a careful scrutiny this time to make sure we hadn’t changed positions suspiciously, or tampered with our bonds. I lay there, trying to figure things out. The timing was important. The ropes around my wrists and ankles posed no real problem, since a trick belt with a sharp-edged buckle—well, sharp if you know how to get at it—is part of the standard equipment. The question was whether to use it now or wait.
I decided to wait. At the moment, the risk of detection was too great, and according to Libby’s census, the odds were five to one against me, six to one if I counted Libby herself, and there was no good reason not to. It seemed better to let the situation sort itself out a little. Maybe I could somehow, eventually, separate my bull from the cows and steers.
The truck slowed down suddenly, made a sharp left turn, and started bumping over the ruts of a very rough road, little more than a track by the feel of it, leading away from the highway.
“What do you see?” I asked Libby.
“Just trees,” she said. “We seem to be in some kind of mountains. The car ahead is stopping in a little clearing. That’s the Lincoln. There are some horses, four of them.”
“Horses?” I said. “I didn’t know they used horses up here. I thought they all traveled by bush plane and dog sled.”
The truck stopped. The camper door opened. Somebody reached in, grabbed me under the armpits, dragged me out, and stood me on my feet to face a tall, solidly built man dressed for the woods in boots, wool pants, a heavy lumberman’s coat, and a cap—the kind with earflaps—of the same reddish plaid material. Among all this rugged clothing, the little black Hitler mustache and the gold-rimmed glasses looked lost and effeminate.
29
I didn’t look at him too hard or too long. There’s a kind of telepathic recognition that sometimes passes between people in our line of work. Maybe a couple of artists occasionally feel the same odd little tingle of kinship when they meet, or a couple of auto salesmen. I wouldn’t know about that.
I only know that I can often spot one of my fellow specialists, even at a distance; and I didn’t want Holz to spot me or guess my real mission. As long as he thought I was just a dim-witted counterespionage type, I was much more likely to keep
on living.
He looked me over for just a moment, giving nothing away; then be indicated a nearby log for the man behind me to park me on. Libby was hauled out of the camper and set down beside me. She tossed some displaced hair out of her eyes and shifted position uneasily.
“He might have picked a drier log,” she murmured.
“I don’t think Mr. Wood spends a great deal of time worrying about preserving the seats of our pants. Quite the contrary,” I said, with a meaningful look toward the horses. “I don’t know where he intends to take us, or why, but how are you at riding with your hands tied behind you?”
She said, “Ugh. If there’s any animal more objectionable than a dog, it’s a horse, if only because it’s bigger and stupider.”
I refrained from making a face at her, but I felt like it. She was back on her antilivestock kick and to hell with her. Probably it would turn out that she’d taken the equestrienne gold medal at the last Olympics. As for me, I’ve held down a saddle or two in my time, but I’m still the kind of rider who requires some cooperation from the horse.
The little clearing was fairly crowded. The Ford delivery job had pulled up behind the camper. Ahead a ways was the Lincoln, the four-horse herd, and, half hidden in the brush at the end of the opening, another sedan with a big cattle trailer hitched on behind. I saw the younger man, the citified one with galoshes, who’d given me the password in Beaver Creek—the one who’d just dragged me out of the camper—head that way on some unknown assignment.
Holz had attacked the Lincoln. Helped by the younger woman, now without her plastic covering, he was dragging horse gear and other equipment out of the rear seat and trunk. I noted four scabbarded rifles, one for each horse. Two were strictly nothing-guns. They were the movie-cowboy, bang-bang rifles; the short, flat little lever-action carbines that, although handy to slip under your leg when riding, don’t have much more range or accuracy than a good revolver.
The other two I couldn’t make out in detail since their scabbards were equipped with leather hoods for full protection, but they were obviously longer and heavier, real big-game guns, bolt action rifles with telescopic sights, suitable for serious marksmanship if properly assembled and prepared. Since they were presumably Holz’s guns, I thought they’d probably be tuned pretty well. Maybe one was even the weapon intended for his next assignment, down in the Lower Forty-Eight, right after election-time—the date I was supposed to prevent him from keeping.
The old woman, the one I’d seen riding in the Lincoln the day before, wasn’t visible anywhere. Her companion, the older man, was leaning against the truck watching over Libby and me. He had no weapon out, but there was a hint of armament under the armpit of his civilized overcoat; not the most convenient place in the world, but plenty available enough under the circumstances.
After Holz and the lady in the green pants had worked between the Lincoln and the horses for a while, the galoshes gent came out of the brush beyond, a changed man. Now instead of city shoes with rubber protection, he was wearing well-worn cowboy boots. There was also a pair of greasy jeans, a faded denim jacket that reminded me of Pat Bellman, who’d favored a similar garment, and a wide-brimmed hat that had real character, obviously seasoned by years of Alaska weather and a multitude of campfires. Even his walk had changed to the rolling gait of the horseman, and he was lugging a saddle with each hand. Well, he’d never made a very convincing city slicker.
He moved across the clearing to where Holz was now adjusting the cinch of a bony-looking chestnut gelding.
“All right, Mr. Wood,” I heard him say. “I’ll take care of this.”
I saw Holz glance my way and I heard his voice: “Better lengthen, the stirrups on the little mare. The man has long legs.”
“So his knees bump his chin today, who cares? Tomorrow he’ll never feel it.”
“Lengthen them, Jack.”
“Sure, Mr. Wood.”
It was a revealing exchange, in more ways than one. I watched Holz come across the clearing toward us, accompanied by the unattractive female in the tight pants. He passed some sort of signal to the man guarding us, who walked back to the lab van and returned with the older woman: a sturdy, gray-haired lady in a tweed skirt, cotton blouse, and cardigan sweater. She stuffed a small automatic pistol into the pocket of her skirt as she came up.
Holz spoke to the three of them: “I want you to tie up the loose ends. The first thing is the dog. We couldn’t wait around for him just now; Jack and I have a long ride to make to reach the lake before dark. Besides, he was too excited. He’ll have settled down by this time. I want one of you to stay here to guard our guests in the van while the other two go back and dispose of him quietly and privately.”
There was a brief silence. I noted that Holz was carefully not looking my way. You might have thought he was a little embarrassed about giving orders to kill my dog, right in front of me. It didn’t seem in character, but on second thought I realized I didn’t know the man’s character. All I knew was his record. I’d made him up a personality to fit that record, in my mind, but it didn’t have to be the right one.
The man with the overcoat asked, “And what if the pooch won’t be caught.”
“Do what you can without attracting attention. I’d rather not leave him around. He’s obviously a valuable animal. Even without a collar, he might be traced. But leave him if you have to; don’t stay so long that you can’t be back here by, say, two o’clock. How are our young friends in the van?”
He looked at the gray-haired woman as he asked the question, and she said, “Red-Whiskers is all right. The other one is feeling sorry for himself. I took his gag out, but he moaned so loudly I had to put it back.”
Holz nodded. “Well, you know where to stage the wreck. Give them the injection—you know which one—just before you send them through the guard rail. We don’t want any miraculous survivals. You know where to turn in this camper. The people there have instructions for burying it. Take the Lincoln back to Anchorage. When Jack and I come back, we’ll dispose of the horses and trailer and meet you there. You know where.”
The man with the horses called, “All ready here, Mr. Wood.”
“All right, Jack.” Holz looked at the three in front of him. “Any questions? Very well, untie this pair and bring them over… Wait a minute.” He turned to look down at Libby and me. “Miss Meredith or whatever your name may be,” he said, “and Mr. Nystrom or whatever your name may be, you undoubtedly realize that you are scheduled to die… No, no, Miss Meredith, let me finish. It was one of the risks you assumed when you embarked on your missions of deceit and impersonation; it should come as no surprise to you now.”
Libby said quickly, “You’re making a mistake. You wouldn’t listen to me back there, you were in such a damn hurry…”
“What is my mistake?”
“I’m working for the same people as you are. I have credentials—”
“Whom you’re working for is yet to be determined, Miss Meredith. We know that in Seattle you identified your companion, positively, as Grant Nystrom. For your information, Jack over there was well acquainted with the real Mr. Nystrom and guided him on two hunting trips. Jack says that this man is no more Grant Nystrom than he, Jack, is Sophia Loren. Yet you identified this, impostor as our courier, your lover. What does that make you, Miss. Meredith?”
“I can explain—”
“You will be given an opportunity to try. But not here. There isn’t time.”
“You’d better listen to me right here!” she said hotly. “You’re making a bad mistake. You’d better check and check carefully or you’re going to be in real trouble, Mr. Wood or whatever your name may be. I’m working for some important people in San Francisco, people you know very well, and they gave me a message to deliver…”
“Where is the message?”
“I’m not authorized to give it to you. I was told to deliver it only to a man named Anson, George Anson. There were some corny words we were supposed to say,
as usual.”
Holz smiled faintly and gestured toward the middle-aged man in the overcoat. “This is George Anson… Say the corny words, George.”
The man leaned down and whispered in Libby’s ear, and turned his head so she could whisper back. He straightened up and nodded.
Libby said triumphantly, “Well, are you satisfied? Untie my hands so I can give him the message.”
It was Holz’s turn to nod. The man called Anson worked briefly at the knots. When the ropes fell away, Libby sat rubbing her wrists for a moment; then reached well up under the front of her high-necked sweater and brought out a tiny cylindrical object which she handed to Anson. She smoothed the brown sweater down once more.
Anson produced a slip of paper and tossed aside the capsule in which it had traveled. He said, “Just a minute, Mr. Wood. It seems to be in code.”
Nobody spoke or moved as he bent over the hood of the truck, writing with a small gold pencil he’d fished from inside the overcoat somewhere near the shoulder-holstered gun. I didn’t look at Libby, or at Holz. They had me baffled. Together, they were putting on a great show, apparently for my benefit, but the purpose escaped me. Well, it would become clear eventually, I hoped.
Anson straightened up. His face was expressionless. He walked over and gave the paper to Holz, who read it and looked at Libby.
“Well?” she snapped.
“Would you like to hear the message you brought so many thousand miles, Miss Meredith?”
She licked her lips. “Yes, of course.”
“The communication, decoded, reads: BEARER IS TRAITOR—LIQUIDATE.”
“No!” Libby cried. “No, you can’t… It’s a mistake.”
Holz shrugged. “Perhaps. If so, it seems we’re all making it, both here and in San Francisco. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to live with it—and die with it, Miss Meredith. What I started to say earlier was that while your execution and that of Mr. Nystrom is inevitable, I have been instructed to learn certain things about you, both of you, before I carry it out.”
Matt Helm--The Interlopers Page 20
