The Intimidators (19 page)

It was a big sedan, almost as big as Haseltine’s; and there was a driver waiting patiently and silently behind the wheel. Mac stopped beside the vehicle and turned to face me.

“I brought you out here under false pretenses,” he said. “I have nothing to show you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, to be saying something. He was obviously just making up his mind about what to tell me, or how to tell it to me, now that Harriet was no longer present.

He said, “Inside, I said that the decision how to handle this situation had not yet been made. That is incorrect. As a matter of fact, two decisions have been made. One applies if we cannot locate the kidnapers and their prisoners. The other becomes effective if we can. In neither case do we pay the ransom demanded.”

“I see,” I said. “Do our allies go along with this?”

“They have to,” Mac said. “Neither of them has manpower or shipping available locally in the quantities required. They are unable to act unilaterally even if they wish. It’s up to us, either way; and for various diplomatic reasons it is absolutely impossible at the moment for us to intervene in this Caribbean family squabble with military force, or even with weapons and supplies. I am assured by those who know that it is politically unthinkable. Even if we wanted to submit to this ambitious blackmail scheme, we couldn’t.”

“Because of those delicate negotiations you mentioned inside?” I said. Mac didn’t answer. I went on: “If we don’t locate the hideout, what happens?”

He moved his shoulders slightly. “The hostages will presumably be killed. If it happens, it will become our duty to track down and remove every man and woman involved. The word must get around—unofficially, of course—that we will not submit to this kind of extortion; and that anyone who tries it, dies.”

I drew a long breath. “That’ll be one tricky manhunt, sir,” I said. “How the hell are we going to identify a bunch of obscure Estebanian
paisanos
once they throw away their guns and go back to their fishing nets, or their sugar cane or maize or whatever they grow on that lousy little island, which probably isn’t even called St. Esteban, at least I don’t recall seeing the name and I’ve been looking at maps till I’m cross-eyed.”

“It isn’t,” Mac agreed. “If it becomes important, we’ll try to obtain the real name for you. As yet it has not been entrusted to me.”

I said, “Security! Everybody going hush-hush about something I could find out in an hour by getting on a phone and tracking down the birthplace of this Leo Gonzales who worked for Wellington Phipps. Or I could make it real simple and ask Haseltine; he probably sailed with the guy enough to learn where he was bom. If everybody wouldn’t waste so goddamn much time trying to hide stuff from us—”

“The real location isn’t significant right now, is it?”

I said, “With all due respect, sir, how the hell do I know what’s significant right now and what isn’t?” I shook my head quickly. “Okay. So we let them die and avenge them; that still won’t get Haseltine back his lost Loretta. He won’t like it.”

“A great many softhearted people won’t like it,” Mac agreed. “Our allies don’t like it very much. But the feeling in Washington, at least at the moment, is that the time has come to put a stop to the growing hostage industry. This is a good test case, since it doesn’t balance money against human lives. Even the most dedicated humanitarian idealist isn’t going to be able to point out a great many humanitarian advantages to saving the lives of one group of people by sending the Marines to slaughter another, and probably larger, group.”

I wasn’t really interested in the philosophical gymnastics of a bunch of Washington
politicos.
“And what if we do find the hiding place, sir?”

“Then we will be given a certain period of time in which to effect a rescue,” Mac said.

“And deal with the so-called rebels?”

“That will not be required,” he said. “At the end of the time-period allowed us, regardless of the territorial rights involved, and regardless of who is or who is not still on the premises, there will be a rather spectacular explosion at the predetermined latitude and longitude. The fireworks will, of course, be nonnuclear and quite inexplicable. We will all be properly horrified at the deaths of all those poor people, innocent and otherwise. But such things happen when relatively primitive, untrained islanders try to cope with modern weapons and explosives they don’t understand.”

There was a brief silence. “Wow!” I said softly, at last. “Somebody’s getting real tough. I wonder why.”

“There are reasons,” Mac said. “Unfortunately, it won’t last. The Germans tried getting tough once, with those Arab terrorists at the Olympics, remember? Of course, they mismanaged the job atrociously—their marksmanship was hopeless—but the principle was quite correct. Nevertheless, they were severely criticized for even making the attempt, in spite of the obvious fact that the only way to deal with these incidents on a permanent, long-term basis, is to make it absolutely clear that there is no longer any profit, political or financial, to be gained by this type of operation; and that instant and certain death awaits anyone who thinks he can intimidate society as a whole by threatening a few individuals.”

I said mildly, just to be arguing: “It may be obvious, but it’s apt to be kind of tough on the threatened individuals.”

“Of course,” Mac agreed, “but in the long run more lives will be lost by yielding to these blackmailers and encouraging others to emulate them, than by putting an end to the racket now by acting instantly and ruthlessly regardless of who gets hurt.” He shrugged. “Well, that is theory. In practice, in this particular instance, because of the highly classified political and diplomatic complications involved, the ruthless approach will be used, but in these sentimental times I don’t really expect it to set a popular precedent. Unfortunately.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m sure that if it were clearly established that any airliner that’s hijacked will simply be shot down on the spot, passengers and all, that would cure the disease pretty quickly.”

“Precisely,” Mac said calmly.

I’d been more or less kidding, but he was perfectly serious. Sometimes he manages to surprise me, even after all these years. On the other hand, come to think of it, he did have a solution that would work if people were willing to pay the price, which was more than anybody else could say....

“So much for international theory,” I said. “As far as strictly local practice is concerned, I think I’m going to need Morgan, preferably alive.”

Mac frowned. “He may be difficult to produce. Even if we should catch up with him, the local police may feel they have priority, since he has committed murder here.”

“Don’t tell them,” I said. “Just pass the word along the official underground. Haste is imperative. Find him but don’t touch him; and tell me, not the cops. I really want him taken alive; and that’s a job I guess I can’t wish on anybody else, big as the bastard is.”

“Very well.” Mac hesitated. “Eric. One more thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

His voice had changed. I wouldn’t say it had softened; that would be an exaggeration. But there had been a hint of a change, let’s say, in that general direction; and I had a sudden cold feeling somewhere near the diaphragm, because it’s a direction in which he seldom moves.

Mac said slowly, “This is a private matter. I’m afraid I have bad news.” He stopped, and went on: “A man in my position sometimes has to decide whether or not to maintain the efficiency of an agent in the field by witholding adverse information of a private nature, but.... Ah, to hell with it.”

Now I knew it was serious. He hardly ever resorts to blasphemy, unlike some people in the organization. I reviewed the possible private matters about which he might have received adverse information.

“Lorna,” I said. “She was supposed to be back shortly, you said the other day. She didn’t make it.”

He nodded. “I was notified earlier this evening. I’m sorry.”

“How and where?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

He was right. I didn’t want to know. In our work, it happens in all kinds of places, in all kinds of ways, none pleasant. It was better just to remember a tall woman walking out to board a plane without looking back.

“Thank you for letting me know, sir,” I said. “I’ll be in touch when I have something to report.”

I stood there for a moment after the big car had driven away. Then I started for the cabin, but stopped. I drew a deep breath and rearranged my face to look, I hoped, cheerful and maybe even a little expectant, like the face of any man rejoining an attractive woman in a motel room late at night....

Harriet had cleaned up the place, neatly rolling up all my charts and maps and snapping around them the rubber band I’d used to hold them before. The long paper cylinder lay on the table by the door. The lady herself, propped up against a pillow, reclined on the sofa in the corner with a partially filled motel glass in her hand.

“I found your bottle,” she said, “and there’s ice in the kitchenette refrigerator. I’d have made a drink for you, but I wasn’t sure you’d trust it, considering what happened the last time I plied you with liquor.”

I grinned. “What’s the difference? You could have spiked the whole bottle with cyanide while I was outside.” I went back into the kitchenette. When I returned, armed with glass and contents, she tucked her long skirt closer around her legs to make room for me on the sofa beside her. “Well, it’s been a long time,” I said, sitting down.

“That’s a cold man you work for,” she said.

I said, “Don’t change the subject.”

She smiled. “All right, Matt. It
has
been a long time. I... sometimes I’ve kind of wished....”

“What?”

“That I hadn’t been quite so fast with those knockout drops that night.”

I regarded her for a moment; and took a long drink from my glass and set it aside; and looked at her again. She was a hell of a good-looking woman, with her smooth dark hair and her tanned skin contrasting nicely with the white silk blouse. In some respects, if you considered women as types instead of individual people, she was a lot like another tall woman I’d known recently; but that wasn’t a thought I wanted to dwell on tonight. After all, I had serious work to do. Duty called.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I’ve had some disturbing thoughts along those lines myself, from time to time. I knew damned well you hadn’t drowned. You dove overboard before I could tie a brick around your neck. A lead brick.”

“You say the sweetest things,” she murmured. “I do love men who aren’t afraid of a little sentiment.”

Smiling, she held out her glass to me, and I set it carefully on the floor beside mine. She held out her arms, and I accepted the invitation and kissed her hard. We both knew where the noses went, and it was really quite a respectable performance. Anybody watching would have sworn there was real passion involved; and maybe there was. It comes in a wide range of flavors, both natural and artificial; and after things progress beyond a certain point it’s hard to tell one from the other.

“All right, darling,” she whispered at last, “all right, all right, just go turn out the light like a good boy, please, while I.... No, damn it, you’ll tear.... I’ll do it, just get that goddamn light!”

Then the light was out and the time for idle chatter was past. I wasn’t really a good boy, and she wasn’t a good girl, either; and there was apparently a lot of violence in both of us that needed, and found, an outlet. Afterward, we lay for a long time catching up on breathing that had got far behind schedule. Presently she managed a small, rather ragged laugh.

“Oh, dear,” she gasped, “oh, dear, and all my life I’ve tried so hard to be a real lady!”

She moved a little, indicating a desire for freedom, and I let her go. After a moment, the light came back on. I’d rather have remained in the dark. I was feeling slightly ashamed of myself, realizing that I’d done my best to pay her back for that long-ago seduction, that had misfired; I guess I’d also been punishing her for something that was not at all her fault—a private grief, and a feeling of guilt because I’d been here doing this instead of paying my respects to the departed in a sober and sincere and conventional way, preferably in church.

I was relieved to see that Harriet seemed to have taken no damage. She was standing, slender and brown and naked, in front of the mirror. Apparently she did her sunbathing nude, since there were no bikini marks in evidence. I had an intriguing mental picture of her fishing boat drifting idly out in the Gulf Stream while the lady charter captain took the sun on the flying bridge without a stitch on. I watched her pull the remaining pins out of her moderately disheveled hair, and shake it loose about her shoulders.

“Well, are you satisfied?” she asked without looking around. “Did you get it out of your system, whatever it was? What did he tell you out there, anyway? You looked like sudden death when you came back in with that frozen grin on your face.” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Matt.”

“What?”

“It’s a lousy goddamned game. Can we stop playing it now, please?”

Everything was very quiet. For a moment, I hated her. I mean, we’d been doing fine. It had been a great act, the clever, clever, secret agent laying, in the line of duty, the bright, bright female with useful enemy connections; each principal to the sordid bedroom drama full of devious motives far removed from sex.... Well, as far removed from sex as possible. Now she’d gone and spoiled it.

I looked at the slim woman standing there without any clothes on, patting the strands of her loosened hair into place, apparently totally unselfconscious, but nobody was that unselfconscious.

I said, “Harriet, if you’re trying to be smart, cut it out. Everybody’s been quite smart enough in here tonight, already.”

“That’s what I mean.” She still hadn’t turned to look at me. “Your chief coming in here and making elaborate speeches about how he’s going to trust me because of my loyalty, for God’s sake! That man doesn’t even trust himself unless he’s standing in front of a mirror where he can keep an eye on himself! Trust, hell! What does he think I am, a child?”