The Poisoners (22 page)

I was expecting this particular man because I knew just such a man—although he had not been wearing a mustache when I’d seen him last—and because this was just the kind of secretive scientific monkey business in which he specialized. He was known to us only as Mr. Soo, and I’d encountered him twice before. The first time had been in Hawaii where I’d saved his life, more or less out of necessity, along with my own, and then turned him loose because he might have proved an embarrassing prisoner—we’d had some turncoat trouble with one of our agents that we didn’t particularly want publicized. The second encounter, if you could call it that—I’d seen him but he hadn’t seen me—had taken place in Alaska where I’d again let him go free, this time because we’d gone to considerable trouble to plant some false data on him, or, more accurately, on a handsome lady who had his confidence.

I’d wondered, from time to time, just what had happened to the attractive woman known as Libby, when our deceit was finally discovered, and to Mr. Soo. Apparently, I need not have worried about Mr. Soo. He’d overcome the professional setback somehow, and here he was—if it was he—doing business as usual, presumably for his old firm, the one with headquarters in Peking. The question was, what business?

I frowned at the dim scene for a moment longer, but I was wasting time. My curiosity would just have to wait. Warfel might be coming ashore at any moment, and although the project didn’t particularly appeal to me, it was my job to keep him safe. I crawled left towards the peak of the ridge until I was high enough that, looking back along it, I could see all of it. Tillery was easy to spot from up there. He was lying among some rocks industriously using night glasses. Beside him was Sapio, with the Thompson.

Well, it was nice to have them located, but the guy who really concerned me was Jake. He was undoubtedly the man who’d do the actual job, with his big rifle and its odd-looking sight. Tillery and Sapio were present only in an executive capacity, I figured, to give instructions and make sure they were carried out successfully, and perhaps to take a hand in discouraging pursuit, with the tommy gun, afterwards.

Anyway, Jake was the only one who worried me a little, as competition or opposition or whatever you choose to call it. He was a working pro in more or less my own line of endeavor. The other two might have been tough once, but they were desk slobs now or the syndicate equivalent. Well, in a dark alley or a vacant city lot they might still be formidable, but out here in the open—in the kind of terrain I’d grown up in—I didn’t figure they’d give me much trouble once I’d managed to take care of Jake.

I caught a hint of movement farther down the curving rim of the old crater, if it was a crater. Moonlight glinted on a rifle barrel, and there he was. He’d picked a spot that was within easy rifle shot of the landing area, at least by daylight, but it was fairly low, one of the few places where the ridge looked easily climbable from the beach. I didn’t get it at first, and then I realized that I’d underestimated Tillery’s sense of strategy. The rifle would fire, Warfel would fall, and after a moment of shocked surprise, the gang on the beach, would rush the tempting low spot from which the shot had come. That would place them on the steep slope with hardly any cover, cold meat for the chopper on the crest. A couple of raking bursts from the flank, and the few who remained alive would become too interested in staying that way to think about further pursuit.

Well, there was my pigeon and it was time to get at plucking it. I headed down into the brush, working my way slowly and silently—well below the spot where Sapio and Tillery lay—and almost ran into a man leaning against the trunk of a tree with a carbine slung on his shoulder, presumably another of Warfel’s lookouts, but what the hell was he doing way down here where he couldn’t look out at anything?

It worried me, but I had no time to brood about it. I sneaked by him silently and kept going until I figured I was directly below Jake’s position; then I moved upwards very carefully, to discover I’d gone a little too far. I was out in the rocks and brush to seaward of him. From here I could hear the beat of the surf on the promontory off to my right. I could hear another, less reassuring sound: the put-put racket of a small outboard motor in the bay. It could be driving a dinghy bringing Warfel ashore.

I could see Jake quite plainly. He lay between two rocks, screened, from the bay side, by some of the coarse grass that grew in tufts here and there along the ridge. He had not yet put the rifle to his shoulder. If his target was approaching, it was, apparently, still out of range.

From my side, he had little protection. It would have been an easy shot if I’d been allowed to make the noise. I yearned for a silencer, dart gun, death ray, or bow and arrow; but wishing was getting me nowhere. There was no easy way of sneaking up on him where he lay; the ground was too open around him. I’d have to make him come to me.

I picked a suitable ambush site behind and below him. It took me some time to work my way to it, long enough for the outboard to cross the bay and fall silent, but Jake still did not lift the rifle. Either Warfel hadn’t come ashore this trip, or he wasn’t offering a good enough shot yet. I laid the jack handle from the Chrysler where I could grab it fast, and tossed a small rock down the hillside to land far below me.

I saw Jake stiffen slightly and lie there listening. I let a couple of minutes pass; then I tossed another stone, not quite so far, as if somebody down there were sneaking closer, very slowly and rather clumsily. Jake looked around uneasily. Seeing nothing, he glanced down at the beach in front of him, out of my range of vision.

Apparently he found nothing urgent down there; he backed away from the edge and rose, holding the rifle ready. He came towards me cautiously, scanning the brush for movement, pausing every other step to listen hard. I had a small stone, like a marble, between thumb and forefinger. When he paused five feet away, I flipped it after the others. He froze, looking that way. I came out of the bushes low and broke his leg with the jack handle.

I was taking a chance, of course. He might have yelled and alerted half of Baja California—including Sapio, nearby, with the submachine-gun—but I was counting on Jake and his tough professionalism and he didn’t disappoint me. His mental computer was programmed for silence, and the sudden pain got only a sort of choked, moaning grunt out of him, as he came down on top of me.

Something hard struck me in the small of the back: the butt of the falling rifle. It hurt, but I didn’t mind. If the weapon had hit the ground first, it would have made more noise; it might even have been discharged by the shock. But everything worked out well; and I threw the big man off me and came to my feet as he struggled to hands and knees and tried to rise. I had plenty of time to reach down and give him a judicious tap behind the ear with the short iron bar I held.

Then, standing above him, I had a fight with my conscience, but it wasn’t much of a fight. I mean, the question was which injection to use to keep, him quiet—the temporary or one of the permanents—but the answer came quite easily. To be sure, I’d promised myself the pleasure of watching this man die in agony, back when he was beating on me in Bobbie’s hotel room, but that had been merely a psychological crutch, to help me face the ordeal with fortitude. Actually, I didn’t have a great deal against Jake. He’d knocked me around a bit, but I’d walked into the situation with my eyes open, and it had all been strictly in the line of business.

And in a sense, while he was undoubtedly a bad citizen, tonight he seemed to be on the side of the angels. Apparently he, and Tillery and Sapio, were trying to prevent a man from smuggling dope, a worthy cause—although the degree of virtue did depend somewhat on their true motives.

The syndicate, Mafia, Cosa Nostra, corporation, or whatever you want to call it, is not my bag, and I don’t know a hell of a lot about it. However, just because some unpleasant people insist they’re dropping an illegal activity because it’s become too hot to be profitable, or for any other reason, doesn’t mean I have to believe them. For all I knew, Jake could have been assigned this job of marksmanship, not because Warfel was disgracing his innocent Mafia associates by dealing in dirty heroin, but simply because he was stepping on the toes of some other mafioso—if that’s the correct term—somebody with better syndicate connections than Frankie’s, who’d been promised this lucrative branch of the drug trade for himself.

Still, ostensibly, the project upon which Jake was embarked, homicide apart, seemed kind of praiseworthy even if it was interfering with Charlie Devlin’s elaborate plans—and if somebody just had to be shot, I couldn’t think of a more suitable candidate than Frankie-boy Warfel. Furthermore, Big Jake hadn’t got any rougher than necessary, putting on his interrogation act for me back at the hotel—he’d added no personal frills to the beating—and I don’t go around killing people merely because they hit me a little with their fists in the line of duty.

Finally, it kind of intrigued me to think of some ruthless syndicate rub-out men, bent on murder, napping peacefully on a Mexican hillside while their quarry sailed away unharmed. Killing one of them would have spoiled the joke.

As I slipped him the needle, Jake was trying to wake up, but the drug soon rendered him passive once more. I picked up the fallen rifle and studied it, frowning. Although it seemed to be a standard bolt-action sporting model—a fully loaded, short-barreled .308 Remington in their cheapest grade, if you must have the details—it had a Buck Rogers appearance due to the bulky, home-made-looking gadget that was solidly mounted on top.

What I’d taken to be a telescopic sight of sorts seemed to be a kind of fancy flashlight with a long black hood, or snoot, shielding the big front lens, presumably so that light wouldn’t spill to the sides. Well that wasn’t unheard of. Spotlights are frequently clamped on guns for nocturnal hunting use in some parts of the world, but generally the idea is merely to put some light on a leopard, or other beast, at close range—enough illumination to let you see the sights to aim and shoot. Apparently that was not the principle involved here. Jake had been planning a shot of better than a hundred yards, too far for ordinary spotlighting techniques, and his rifle had no sights other than this odd contraption…

My research was interrupted by the sound of the outboard motor, that had been silent for a while, starting up once more. I sneaked up to the rim and saw that the
Fleetwind
’s dinghy had taken the completed pontoon raft in tow and was heading out towards the ketch, which now had a decided list to port due to the great metal cylinder suspended from the boom swung out over the side. The two men I’d tentatively identified as Willy and Mr. Soo still stood together by the jeep at the far side of the beach. There was no sign of Frank Warfel, although one of the dim, small, distant figures on the deck of the motorsailer could have been him, and probably was.

I eased away from the edge, and squirmed back to Jake, checked that he was sleeping soundly, and made my way into a gully well below where, I hoped, I could experiment a bit with the trick rifle without attracting attention. I aimed it at a rock some twenty yards away—as close as I could line it up in the dark without sights—and pressed the switch on the side of the Flash Gordon gizmo, bracing myself for all kinds of spectacular fireworks, although it didn’t seem likely that a gadget intended for night operations would be too bright or too noisy.

Actually, nothing much happened. A small, sharp, intense cross of light just appeared silently on the rock at just about the point where, I estimated, the gun was aimed. Very neat. All you had to do, apparently, was put the X on a guy, and he was dead when you pulled the trigger.

Well, it still wasn’t a totally new idea. Back when I was making my living with a press camera, in another and more peaceful incarnation, they’d rigged a light to shine through the range finder optical system, projecting two bright spots as far as you’d be likely to take an ordinary flash picture. Working at night, in light too dim for ordinary focusing, you merely brought the two spots together on the celebrity you wished to photograph, and fired your flashgun.

The only really impressive thing here was the remarkable sharpness and intensity of the illuminated cross, good enough to make feasible shots of over a hundred yards—at least Jake had obviously thought so. I wondered if laser technology might not be involved in some way. I also wondered if Jake had cooked up the thing himself, swiped it from some top secret Army project, or whether perhaps the syndicate also had inventors and armorers hard at work dreaming up interesting new toys for the boys.

I switched off the beam and crouched there, considering the next step; but a rustling sound brought my thinking to an abrupt halt. I flattened out and lay absolutely still, waiting. Presently a shadowy figure appeared by the rock I’d used for a target: a thin little man with a sawed-off shotgun like the one that had been used on Lionel McConnell. He stood by the rock for several seconds, first studying it, and then looking warily around. Obviously, wherever he’d been hiding, he’d caught a glimpse of something bright and had come over to investigate—another of Warfel’s sentries, who probably, judging by his uneasy attitude, was wishing he were back in good old smoggy L.A.

That made three, all stationed well down from the rim. I could no longer kid myself that this was simple gangster stupidity. On the contrary, somebody was obviously being very clever, and it was high time, I told myself, that I got the hell out of there. It was bug-out time at Bahia San Agustin.

After all, I told myself, the job for which I’d come here was done, more or less. I’d pretty much kept my promise to Charlie Devlin: Warfel was fairly safe. The syndicate’s expert rifleman was out of action and I had his dressed-up rifle. That left the rub-out squad with a tommy gun as its principal weapon—great for cleaning up streets and alleys, for putting the fear of God into hostile characters at close range, but hardly the preferred choice for selective long-range homicide. Without Jake and his specialized weapon, Tillery’s project had turned from a near certainty to a risky gamble, even if Warfel came ashore, which he showed no signs of doing.