The Betrayers mh-10

by Donald Hamilton

  However, this wasn't really important now because there was somebody out in the dark whom I trusted even less, somebody who'd already heard too much.

  Chapter Seventeen

  1 DIDN'T KNOW WHO was out there, of course. My hearing and experience simply told me we were being stalked, like moose in a meadow. Just guessing, I eliminated Isobel. It didn't seem like her kind of assignment; certainly she hadn't been dressed for it when last seen. I figured it was probably either the hawk-faced man I now had a name for, Pressman, or his boy Hanohano, known as Mister Glory. Rog claimed to have put the latter to sleep for a reasonable period, but Rog wasn't a source I considered completely reliable.

  In any case, discretion was useless now. We'd been talking in normal tones and the car windows were open. It was a quiet night up here in the foothills, good for eavesdropping. I had to assume that the man out in the dark had heard facts about Jill he could not be allowed to repeat. A few more wouldn't hurt. He might as well get a good earful while I tolled him in to where he could be silenced.

  I said, speaking loudly and clearly, "Well, as a matter of fact she did tell me a few things. But she didn't tell me she'd taken all of Hawaii into her confidence. I thought the girl was being careful, for God's sake! Who else knows that she's been in contact with Washington?"

  "Just us, Mr. Helm," Francis said. "And Lanny, but he's dead."

  "Who's Lanny and how's he dead?"

  "There were four of us-Jill, Lanny, Rog, and me. We… we kind of worked together. You know, on the peace bit. Jill was the spark plug, she was full of ideas…

  "Sure. She gave me that weep-for-the-toiling-Asian-masses line. Never mind that. Get to Lanny, who's dead where?"

  Francis said with a hint of stubbornness, "Well, first you'd better know how we all got recruited, sir. You see, after one of our meetings, Jill met this man who called himself Rath-"

  "Monk," I said. "She told me. He sold her the idea and she sold you. You were all going to save the world for peace on government pay."

  The stalker was moving in closer. I couldn't really believe the boys hadn't heard him, but city kids-kids who've never spent time in the woods with a rabbit gun or deer rifle-are practically deaf. Or perhaps they knew perfectly well he was out there. Perhaps this was a setup and their job was to make me talk for the man out in the dark, whoever he might be. For the moment I was happy to oblige.

  Rog said angrily, "Hell, man, it's our lives they want to throw away out in those crummy jungles. A man's got a right to say what he's going to get killed for, hasn't he?"

  I saw no need to get involved in that argument. I just asked, "What did Lanny get killed for? Or did he die a natural death?"

  "He died of a broken neck," Francis said, and shivered. "I think Monk did that, personally. Lanny's lying there in the house on Kilauea Street with his head all twisted to one side… Mr. Helm, I think we were played for suckers. I think Monk, for some reason, wanted a bunch of young people with pacifist records, wanted them on the rolls, so to speak, to cover what he was really doing with the men whose names never showed on the books. I mean, we never got any real training, not to amount to anything. And nobody got reprimanded for getting involved in political affairs-or staying involved. You'd almost have thought Monk liked having us attract attention. And we never had much to do. Shadowing you was the first real assignment I was given. I guess I was pretty clumsy at it."

  "Let's just say I spotted you," I said. "I thought I was supposed to. Now, if you don't mind, let's bear down on your friend Lanny. He's dead with a broken neck in the house on Kilauea Street. That's the house in Honolulu Monk was using as headquarters?"

  "Officially," Francis said. "I'm beginning to think that was kind of a front, too."

  "Now the house is shut up? Nobody's there except Lanny, dead?"

  "That's right," Rog said. "Jeez, we practically fell over him when we broke in."

  Francis said, "You see, Mr. Helm, we tried to call, to report in and ask for instructions, and we got no answer at any of the usual numbers. I mean, I tried after I woke up-you'd given me a message to deliver, remember- and then I got hold of Rog, and I tried to reach Lanny and Jill, but I couldn't. We tried the contact numbers again. No soap. So we drove on out there and the place was empty. No cars, nobody answering the door, nothing. Except Lanny's Honda. We walked around and found a window half open and crawled in and found him. Lanny, I mean. I figure he did like we did, tried to call, and then drove out when he got no answer. But when he got there somebody was still there, and Lanny saw something he shouldn't have, so he got killed."

  "What about Jill?" I asked. "You couldn't locate her anywhere?"

  "No.''

  Rog said, "You haven't told him about the boat."

  "We checked on the boat, after leaving the house," Francis said. "The smaller boat, the one with the twin Evinrude seventies. It's missing. The other, the big inboard-outboard job, has been gone for a couple of days."

  "So Jill told me," I said.

  "That's what you say," Rog said. "It seems to me we're telling you a lot of stuff and you're not telling us a damn thing. Just what did you and Jill talk about, out there in the surf? If you did talk."

  The stalker was quite close now. Because of the cliff near which we were parked, he was making his approach from the left side, which was fine with me. It put Rog more or less between him and me. I hoped the boy was reasonably bullet-proof, if it came to that. I couldn't think of a better use for him.

  I said, "Just a couple more questions before I tell you. First, did you ever hear of a place called K?" They shook their heads. I went on, "And Lanny was just dead? That's all? Nothing fancy, no cigarette burns or anything to indicate he'd been made to talk?"

  "No, sir," Francis said. "Nothing like that."

  "Then we can hope that Jill is still in the clear. Assuming she's alive, of course. I mean, neither of you has spilled any of this to anybody else?"

  Rog said, "What do you think we are, stupid? Hell, if Monk knew we'd got together and arranged to have her contact Washington, he'd kill us all!"

  "And what made you decide to contact Washington?"

  "I told you, sir," Francis said. "It began to look as if he was playing us for suckers. As if he had something big on-big and dangerous and, well, treasonable-and we'd be left holding the bag. When Jill said he'd been in touch with Peking-" Rog said, "So I think the draft stinks and the war is for the birds, but it's all in the family, if you know what I mean. If Monk wants to ring in a bunch of Chinks, he can play without me. I'm cutting out. Now, what arrangements did you make with Jill?"

  "I'll tell you," I said, and lowered my voice to a confidential whisper, and started telling them. I used the truth. It was easier than thinking up a lie and made no difference at this point.

  It worked like a charm. I mean, with my voice down he could no longer hear me out there, so he started to move in even closer to improve the reception, but good as he was he wasn't quite good enough for that. The boys might be deaf, but they weren't that deaf. Suddenly Francis held up a hand for silence, and I stopped talking, and Rog reached out abruptly and hit the lights, and there he was, almost on top of us, the golden boy himself, with a shiny revolver in his hand.

  He threw himself to the side, and fired. It was great shooting, for a man half-blinded by headlights. I heard Rog take the first bullet; I didn't wait to find out where the second was going. I just fell out the door and ran like hell. There was more gunfire behind me as I ran. I heard one shot that had a dull, muffled sound, fired from inside the car. Hanohano's answering two shots echoed sharp and clear between the walls of the canyon.

  Then I was at the bend where the road turned into the sugarcane field. There was one final, sharp report behind me, and a bullet struck the dirt somewhere to the left and ricocheted on past me nastily. I turned the corner out of sight, unhit, leaving Mister Glory, I figured, with just one live round in his weapon if it was our usual five-shot model-two, if it was a six-shooter. It didn't really
matter. If he knew his stuff at all, and I thought he did, he wouldn't come charging blindly after me with an almost-empty gun. He'd pause to reload, and to listen, and to make plans.

  I gave him something to listen to, therefore. I kept pounding noisily along the road through the cane field, like a scared man intent on nothing but flight. As I ran I caught a glimpse of a vehicle backed into a track leading off to the left: the topless jeep. I continued past this, gradually slowing down, as if I were running out of strength and wind, which wasn't far from the truth. Finally I was down to a breathless, almost soundless shuffle. Hanohano had heard, I hoped, a convincing pattern of receding footsteps gradually dying away as the runner's distance and his weariness increased.

  I turned awl, moving as silently as I could manage, stole quickly back to the jeep. It was still standing in the cane, its glass and metal gleaming dully. I took a chance and went right up to it, gambling that I had beat the owner to it. I won my gamble. Nobody jumped me or shot at me. I stood there a moment, listening. There was no sound but a general rustling as breezes moved through the field around me. I picked my spot as carefully as if I'd been selecting a stand beside a game trail, and stepped back into the cane, and got some equipment ready to receive Mister Glory.

  I was still gambling, of course. He might have outsmarted me by simply heading off across country to the nearest phone, on foot. From there he could have called his radio contact-I presumed he had one-and got word to K, wherever it was, letting Monk know there was a female traitor inside the gates, if she'd actually made it there.

  With important information to be transmitted, that would have been the safe and conservative thing for Hanohano to do. There was nothing I had that he needed, and the jeep would keep. But he was tough, I reminded myself, and it was his jeep, and he wasn't likely to walk when he could ride. He was a descendant of Hawaiian kings, and he wouldn't make detours around any damn haoles-white men to you. At least I was betting that was how his mind would work.

  Again I won my bet; he came. He came quite silently this time. I've done a bit of stalling myself, but I'm willing to admit you can generally hear me coming if you know I'm on the way and listen hard. This one moved like a ghost. He must have been hurried or careless or overconfident up the canyon. Perhaps he'd wanted to get into position fast so he could overhear as much as possible; perhaps he'd just figured we'd be too busy talking to notice. But now he knew that if I was here at all, I was ready and laying for him, and he gave me no warning at all of his approach.

  Suddenly he was just there with the shiny revolver in his hands, slipping through the scattered canes at the edge of the road. Every few steps he'd stop to listen. Well, I can't move that noiselessly, but I'm a real expert at holding still. I've had lots of practice, in everything from a duck blind to a fifty-man ambush. I just crouched there and waited him out and let him come to me. When he was within reach, I swung the belt.

  He was almost too quick for me. I missed wrapping the leather around the wrist as I'd intended. But the heavy buckle smashed across his hand and sent the gun flying. He dove for it, but he had to hit short and flat to avoid being scalped by my second swing. He gave up the gun and came to his feet like a cat, facing me.

  He had no shirt on. He'd shed that, perhaps because it was too gaudy or too noisy, or just because he functioned better with a minimum of clothing. He'd also shed his shoes, which seemed to be a habit of the Islands-I remembered the barefoot hula dancer in the elaborate brocade gown. The vague light from the sky gleamed on his powerful chest and shoulders. His hands and forearms swung threateningly, clublike, hinting at karate. I certainly couldn't match strength with him, and probably not skill, either. Well, I had no idea of trying. This wasn't a friendly match in the neighborhood gym. The man had to die before he could tell what he had heard.

  "Don't use that belt on me, man," he whispered. "Don't you use it, I say. I'll tear you apart if you do."

  I laughed. "Hanohano, you're a fraud. If I had the time, I'd beat hell out of you. As it is, I'll be nice. I'll merely kill you."

  His white teeth flashed in the darkness as he grinned. "So now we've both pounded our chests like monkeys. So now let's fight. Coming at you, haole!"

  He crouched, feinted, and sprang at me, and I sidestepped and whipped the belt across and almost got him.

  He had to drop and roll to escape the singing buckle. He was up again in an instant, coming in again with that clumsy-looking, weaving gait. I backed away slowly, holding the belt before me, swinging it from side to side until I saw that it held his eyes-until I saw that he had the idea I was trying to give him. Then I stepped forward and swung, giving him a long, looping teaser this time.

  It was slow and easy. He had all day to grab it, and he did. He pulled hard, and I went in ahead of his pull. Braced, he was thrown off balance when he met no resistance. We came together and went down, and as we fell, I brought my little knife from behind my back and put it into him to the hilt, left-handed. I took time to strike once more, higher and more accurately, and rolled free and kept rolling. A knife hasn't got the shocking power of a bullet. A man can be dead from a knife wound and still have plenty of time to kill you before the message reaches his brain: you're dead.

  I found my feet and looked for him, ready to dodge, or run, or step in and finish him, whichever seemed more appropriate. But he hadn't got further than his knees. He was kneeling there by the jeep, covering his wounds with his big brown hands, looking up at me accusingly while the blood oozed between his fingers. I moved in closer to him, but not very close. There wasn't any sense in taking further risks this late in the game.

  He licked his lips. "You… you tricked me, haole!" It was no time to apologize. He didn't want my apologies. He wanted to know that he was dying at the hands of a man, not of a kid who would weep over his kills.

  I said harshly, "I'm a pro, kanaka. I don't fight for pleasure, just for keeps."

  He showed me his big, bright grin again. "Too bad for you, man. You'll miss a lot of fun that way. A lot of fun…

  Then the message got through to the brain at last, and his face changed, and he pitched forward in the dirt of the cane field. I waited a little while, as you do, and checked the pulse cautiously, and couldn't find it. He wasn't playing possum. He was dead. And the funny thing was, I'd never known him, but I was going to miss him anyway.

  I rose, assuring myself that the important thing was that Jill's secret was safe-at least it would not be betrayed by the man at my feet. For the moment I had trouble convincing myself that any secret was that important. I got into the jeep. The key was in the ignition. I started the battered vehicle, switched on the lights, and drove around the dead man on the ground and back up the canyon to where my rented Ford was parked. Mister Glory had done a good job there. Rog was dead with a bullet in the head. Francis, with two in the chest, was going fast.

  "You… you left us!" he whispered when I opened the car door and bent over him. It seemed I wasn't living up to anybody's idea of proper behavior tonight. "You ran away!"

  "You boys had all the guns," I said. "What was I supposed to do, just sit there and throw rocks at the guy?"

  "Where is he? Hanohano?"

  "He won't be back," I said.

  "Did you… did you get him?"

  "I got him."

  "Ah…" Francis was silent for a little, breathing painfully. "There's something… That woman. McLain."

  For a moment, the name rang no bells. I'd already got used to thinking of her as Marner, which probably wasn't her real name, either.

  "What about Isobel McLain?"

  "That search of her room… just a phony to make you think… Watch out for… watch out…" He stopped. I thought he was gone, but then he whispered, "Jill. Good kid. The only one of us left… Save…"

  "I'll save her," I said.

  It was a promise I might find difficult to keep, but it didn't matter. He was dead. Everybody was dead on Maui tonight. Everybody but me.

  Chapter Eighteen<
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  AT LEAST THAT WAS the way it seemed out there in the foothills. When I got to Lahaina, I discovered that there were actually quite a few people still alive on the island; in fact, the streets were full of them. At the edge of town I got off the main thoroughfare to park the jeep, figuring that it was probably known and might attract attention, driven by a stranger. At that, it was better than the rental sedan, full of blood and bullet holes. Besides, it had a plain old foot-powered brake and a real gearbox, the kind you stirred with a big stick. I could drive it fine.

  I walked into town and found a phone booth down by the dock and stood inside watching the colorful, sunburned people, local and transient, circulating through the joint on the corner, a frame hotel, restaurant, and bar that seemed to be a relic of the old whaling days when the whole Pacific came to this port to get liquored and laid. I was waiting for an overseas connection. Normally I'd have called our Honolulu relay and he'd have put me straight through, but I had to assume that the whole Hawaii apparatus was in Monk's hands, so I was calling direct. It took a while before I heard the voice of the girl in Washington. Then Mac came on.

  "Eric here," I said. "Uncover."

  This meant that I was through playing games and we didn't have to waste time pretending to be what we weren't.

  "Very well, Eric. Proceed."

  "The background first, sir."

  I gave it to him fast, everything that had happened to date. As I talked, I watched a piratical character in dirty white pants and a striped jersey who'd come wandering out on the veranda of the old hotel and seemed to be very carefully not looking in my direction. All he needed was a wooden leg and a patch over one eye.

  "There you have it, sir," I finished. "If you really want to keep all this quiet, as you once intimated, you'd better get a cleanup squad here from somewhere before daybreak. Let's hope nobody uses that road for a lover's lane tonight. Tell them to turn at the tourist-bureau sign pointing to some petroglyphs up the canyon. The Olowalu Petroglyphs. In case you're wondering, a petroglyph is an inscription or picture story carved on rock. We've got some good ones back home in New Mexico."