Such Men Are Dangerous

by Lawrence Block

  I held one of the rifles in both hands, and for an odd minute I was back in Laos, and then the moment was gone before I could analyze it. I wondered if I could still take the thing apart and put it back together in the required time span, and then I wondered how important that sort of talent was nowadays, and then I turned the thoughts off and went to watch the loading operation.

  They could never have worked as well when they were getting paid by the hour. One truck after another was maneuvered into position and its contents systematically transferred to the cavernous van. The crates were marked in code, so I could only guess at the scientific marvels they contained. Gas grenades, botulism cultures, nuclear mortar shells, all the rest. Science marches on, and man’s reach keeps exceeding his grasp. I wondered how many varieties of nerve gas the van held. Properly deployed, I thought, the contents of Sprague’s van could probably wipe out most of the country. Of course no one could use it all that efficiently—

  They finished the third truck, backed it out and away. The kid with the sideburns swung the Amarillo truck around and brought it into position. Everybody got into the act, and I got out of the way and went over to see how George was doing.

  He had them sitting down in the snow, eight of them. He was on his haunches facing them, with the submachine gun on his knees. He asked how it was going. I told him they had already cracked the last truck.

  “The guards?”

  “I moved them on over to the other side.”

  “How are they?”

  “Still unconscious,” I said.

  “Good.” He grinned. “How does it feel to be back in action?”

  “It doesn’t feel.”

  “Huh?”

  I told him to forget it. One of the men was raising his hand. It was the PFC who had wanted to try running the trucks across the field. I thought for a minute that he wanted to go to the toilet.

  George asked him what he wanted.

  “I want to get out of here alive,” he said.

  “You will.”

  “I don’t want to be a hero, sir.” He paused for a moment, as if wondering whether or not he was supposed to call us sir. “None of us, uh, want to be heroes. I don’t know what this is all about, sir, and I, uh, don’t want to know. That’s all, sir.”

  He was very young. I looked at the rest of them and realized that they were all very young. The four hard-noses in the Amarillo truck had been older. This figured—if you were picking a man to start blasting with an automatic rifle, you chose someone whose experience wasn’t limited to the target range. But any clown could sit in a truck.

  “Just do as you’re told,” I told him. I looked around at the rest of them. “You’ll all get out of this alive.”

  They digested this. Then another one had a question, and George nodded at him. I suppose it made sense to keep them talking, I don’t know.

  “Sir, what Major Walker said before. About us being dupes?”

  Oh, they were that, all right.

  “In a Commie conspiracy. I don’t know what it’s all about, but I suppose Majors Bourke and O’Hara were Red agents? Who infiltrated the military? And planned to ship the cargo to subversives?”

  He got O’Gara’s name wrong, but the rest sounded good enough. Give a man paper and pencil and he’ll write out your lie for you and believe it when you read it back to him.

  I let George pick it up. “Good thinking, soldier,” he said. “You’ve got the right idea, but I’m afraid it’s more complicated than you think—”

  I stood up. He didn’t need me there, and I didn’t want to hear the rest of it. I got the radio from the Ford and put through a call to Central. The clown on the other end said he’d been trying to reach me, so maybe it was just as well that I had called.

  I said, “Camelback Leader to Control. Camelback Leader to Control. I cannot read you. Repeat, I cannot read you. Over.”

  He came back loud and clear.

  After a minute I said, “Camelback Leader to Control, I’ve got your signal but you’re not clear. Repeat, I’ve blip gurgle but you’re not gurgle gurgle snap. Please grunt gurgle. Over.”

  He came back again, and I cut in on him. “Control, this is Camelback Leader. We’re losing reception all gurgle place. We’re on schedule and everything’s fine but this gurgle radio. Too much weather. We’ll gurgle snap gurgle gurgle click.”

  I smashed the set with the butt of the Magnum. They weren’t going to hear from us again, and now they could blame it on the snow.

  When the loading operation was finished I had Sprague get his men together. They had worked up a good sweat, and Sprague himself was puffing hard. But the work hadn’t undercut their enthusiasm. They were as bright-eyed as when they started.

  “You men have done good work,” I said. “I want to congratulate you. When a country has the support of men like you—”

  I felt as though I was laying it on a little thick, but once I had set the tone it was hard to let go. I shook hands with them in turn, and they told me their names, and I mumbled heroic words of encouragement.

  “We’re halfway home now,” I went on. “As you all know, the command at Fort Joshua Tree has been completely riddled by Communists and pink sympathizers. Mr. Gunderson and I have to get this van out of sight before they start sending out aerial recon teams. More important, we’ve got to put the truck convoy back on the road. A helicopter can’t tell whether the trucks are full or empty, or whether the men driving them are soldiers or citizens.” I pointed to the pile of field jackets taken from the dead guards. “Try those on,” I said. “See how they fit.”

  The four helpers managed to get into the four available jackets. Sprague was left out. I took off my own overcoat and gave it to him. “You’ll take the convoy car,” I told him. “Wear this, and take the last spot in line.”

  The coat was tight on him, but he managed to get into it. I took his jacket in return. It must have looked ridiculous over my uniform, but I didn’t much care.

  I said, “Your destination is Omaha.” I briefed them on the route and told them to make no stops en route. “You’re behind schedule, so try to make up the time as well as you can. Don’t go over sixty, but maintain as close to that speed as you can without pushing it. When you get to Omaha, split up immediately. Park the trucks on side streets, leave the jackets in them, and head for home.”

  “Won’t they get suspicious when the trucks don’t reach the Omaha destination?”

  “Right. But by then we’ll have the van a long ways from here. We’re buying time, that’s all.”

  “Check.”

  “If you’re stopped on the road, refuse to answer questions. Don’t tell them a thing. No matter who interrogates you, no matter what kind of credentials you’re shown. Follow?” They nodded. “There are a lot of Commie types in positions of authority, and a lot of good Americans who’ll go along with them because they don’t know any better. Just clam up.” I thought for a moment. “Don’t even reveal your names,” 1 went on. “Are you carrying any identification? Wallets, licenses?”

  I waited while they went through their pockets and handed me things. I took the money from their wallets and returned it to them. “We’ll return the rest later,” I said. “And here—” I took out my wallet, counted out five hundred dollars each for them— “for expenses. You’ll receive further recognition of our gratitude several weeks from now.”

  To a man, they denied any desire for compensation. But to a man they took the five hundred.

  “Now, Mr. Sprague. I’m afraid you may never see your truck again, citizen.”

  He returned my smile. “Sort of suspected as much,” he said. “Don’t be worrying about her, she’s insured.”

  “Don’t report the loss. We’ll be in touch with you and you’ll be reimbursed in cash.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else. I cleared out the Bourke-O’Gara Ford, took the suitcases from the trunk and the radio from the front seat, grabbed up some papers
from the glove compartment. Sprague pulled the van over to the side of the road to make room for the convoy. Then he got in the Ford, and the rest of the men climbed into the cabs of the trucks and got the engines going.

  George called me over. His captives seemed completely at ease. He took out a tube of pills and gave it to me. “For the drivers,” he said. “One apiece, now. To prevent fatigue.”

  “Bennies?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “Make sure they take ’em.”

  I went from the truck to truck passing out the pills. “Take it now,” I told each man. “Swallow it down. It’s a guarantee against tiring for the next twelve hours. Even if you’re not tired, take it. You might be interrogated, and they might use some truth serum on you. This makes you immune to it, with no harmful side effects.”

  They all took their pills. One of them had trouble getting his down without water, but he made it. Another, the one with the sideburns, wanted to know if I had anything to help him withstand torture. I told him the pill would also raise his pain threshold. This reassured him, and he swallowed it.

  Sprague gave me some last-minute instructions on operating the truck. How to handle weigh-in stations, where to tank up, that sort of thing. I thanked him again for his cooperation. He quoted me the fair market value of the truck. I don’t recall the figure, but it seemed like an honest estimate, I told him he’d be reimbursed for the same truck in new condition. He said that wasn’t necessary, and I told him it was standard. “The way the Government gives away money, some of it might as well go to the right kind of people.” He allowed as how he couldn’t argue with that.

  I gave the sign, and the first truck dropped into gear and took off. I remembered something and called the driver down. “Don’t forget the road block up ahead,” I said. “Take it down, then have the last man put it up again when you’re through.”

  I suppose he would have figured this out for himself. But he just nodded and said he would, and I waved him on again, and off they went, four khaki trucks in a row, with Sprague bringing up the rear.

  The noise of their engines faded. Then the wind died down and I heard them again. I went over to George. He had a strange look on his face and he avoided my eyes. “Something I want to check,” he said. “Hold onto this for me.”

  He handed me the Thompson. I told the men to remain seated and walked off after him. “It’s silly to argue about it,” he said levelly. “I could do it, sure, but it’s not my kind of thing. We’re running late, Paul. Now if you want to make a case out of it—”

  He saw my face and he shut up.

  I said, “Wait for the question before you come up with the answer. I want the M-14, that’s all.”

  “Oh.”

  “I never used one of these. I want something I’m checked out on, like an M-14.”

  I picked one off the pile and left the Thompson in its place. George said, “I’ll never figure you. Never.”

  “Then why try?”

  I went back to the eight soldiers. Their line had been reshaped into a flat semicircle and they were talking about women. They barely raised their eyes at my approach. I wondered if any of them had laid Col. Carr’s wife and if they had enjoyed it more than I did.

  Sometimes in Cambodia we went out on three and four man patrols. Sometimes we took prisoners, and on patrols like that you can’t take prisoners. They wouldn’t approve in Geneva. So we don’t tell them.

  The M-14 was an old friend. Ratatatatatatatat. It was all over before the barrel was more than slightly warm to the touch.

  I turned and saw George. You prick, I thought. He couldn’t do it, but he had to watch.

  FOURTEEN

  AT 12:04 GEORGE SAID. “It’s official, old buddy. We’re criminals.”

  I was dozing, a shapeless half dream that fled from memory when I opened my eyes. The truck radio was playing country music. I thought he must have heard a news flash and asked him what it was all about.

  “Not that,” he said. “No, there hasn’t been anything. We just crossed a state line, that’s all.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’re in Minnesota. That makes us federal offenders. They can put the FBI on our tail, and then there’ll be no way out.”

  “Funny.”

  He looked at me. “Something wrong? I don’t expect big laughs, but you don’t have to get surly.”

  “I’m half asleep, that’s all. Give me a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  I rubbed my eyes, straightened up in the seat beside him. I checked my watch and announced the time. “They must be in Omaha by now,” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Or close to it. Where are we?”

  He pointed to a map. I picked it up. “The next town we hit is Canby,” he said. “Can you find it?”

  I found it, a dot on the map just east of the South Dakota state line and almost due west of Minneapolis and St. Paul.

  “Where do we stop?”

  “I told you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “The closest town is Good Thunder. I don’t know if it’s on that map. Middle of the state, southern tier. Look for Mankato and then—”

  “Got it.”

  “It’s south of Mankato and—”

  “I found Good Thunder. Where do they get these names?”

  “It’s an Indian word, it means Lakanookee. You know, it’s just about impossible to get a laugh out of you, Paul. The barn’s on a county road southwest of Good Thunder. One of our agents grew up on the farm, inherited it a couple of years ago when his mother died. Ever since I met him he talked about retiring there some day.”

  “I hope he waits a few days.”

  “I think he’s dead, matter of fact. He was in Barcelona and he disappeared. When they disappear in friendly countries we don’t usually see them again.”

  “Maybe he’s on his farm, waiting for us.”

  “Maybe the whole farm disappeared in a flash flood.”

  That’s one thing we never prepared for.”

  “Flash floods?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “May that be our greatest worry.”

  I sat back and watched the road. I asked him if he wanted me to drive. He said he was doing fine, and I didn’t press it. The road was narrow and curvy, the snow was heavy, and the rig would have been a pain to drive on a turnpike in July as far as I was concerned.

  A few miles down the line I said, “George?” He grunted. “What were those pills?”

  “What pills?”

  “The pep tonic for Paul Revere and the Raiders.”

  “Who?”

  “Sprague.”

  “Oh,” he said. He chuckled, and he didn’t say anything, so neither did I. Then he asked me what I thought they were.

  “I didn’t think about it at the time. If they were really bennies I suppose you would have had me tell them they were Spanish Fly. What do they do, induce amnesia?”

  “In a sense.”

  “Oh.”

  He had that smile on his face. He said, “Time-delay capsules. The coating dissolves in two to three hours, depending upon the acidity of the stomach and the amount of change in your pocket. Then instant bliss.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Little black pills.” He glanced at me. “I told you I had a few surprises. You must have guessed.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “The usual diagnosis is heart failure. A good autopsy within forty-eight hours will show more, but in this case it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “No.”

  “I get the feeling it bothers you.”

  I shook my head. “No. Why should it?”

  “Good point.”

  A few miles later he said, “They would have talked, Paul.”

  “No question about it. Not much they could have said, though. And if they got away in Omaha, then I’m not so sure they would have talked. Especially once they found out they’d been conned. They’d have kept their mouths shut fore
ver.”

  “What are the odds on all five of them getting clear in Omaha?”

  “Long odds. Not much they could tell anybody.”

  “They can describe you.”

  “General Windy can do it better.”

  “They can describe me, too. And pick out my photo, if it comes to that. Once they’re identified the truck becomes hot. That’s the only problem, right? We’ll have it cured before anybody identifies them or figures out that Sprague had a truck. From then on the identification works in our favor. What’ll you bet that at least two of the five are in the Klan? Or some other right-wing thing? That fits the Texas story, drags one more red herring across the road.”

  “True.”

  “You don’t sound convinced, Paul.”

  “No, you’re right,” I assured him. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s over four hours now, they’re all dead. Unless—”

  He looked at me. “Unless what? You saw them take the pills, didn’t you?

  “Oh, sure. But say one of them threw up before the pill worked. Or had diarrhea and somehow flushed the pill before zero hour. And then he’d see the other men dropping like flies and he might want to tell somebody about it. Or say one pill just took a lot longer to dissolve, and the one left alive figured things out. You remember that movie with Edmund O’Brien? D.O.A. or something, he’s been fatally poisoned at the opening but he manages to get to the cops before he goes? I saw it years ago, I—”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Probably nothing to worry about, George.”

  “You son of a bitch. You’re sitting there and smiling, you son of a bitch.”

  “Well, you know,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you getting over-confident, George. Got to keep you honed to a keen edge.”

  He let it hang there for a while. Then he laughed, but it sounded as though he was pushing it.