The Terminators (19 page)

She stopped as Rolf came back into the room. "Grandmother!" be protested. "Whatever you think of Sigmund, he is this gentleman's good friend."

"Then this gentleman should know what kind of a good friend he has; a man who will let him die without a moment's hesitation, just so he can kill, kill, kill."

"Grandmother, please!"

It was a new slant on Hank Priest, who'd always seemed to me a fairly conventional gent for a military man. Of course, you don't make a career of the armed forces if homicide bothers you terribly; but I hadn't realized the Skipper had made quite such a hobby of it in his younger days. 
Ingenious, effective, and ruthless
, Mac had said. Well, I was hardly in a position to pass judgment, considering my own profession.

I followed Rolf out of the house and got into the taxi beside him. "How did it go?" I asked.

"Communications were satisfactory," he said. "The aircraft will be there at o-seven-thirty as you requested. It will land at the usual signal. The formalities are being arranged, so there will be no official interference. You must not mind Grandmother. My uncle, the one who died, was her favorite son, I think."

''Sure," I said. "Tell me about it. ... Oh, take me somewhere near the airport road, where I can get out without being seen. I'll walk from there."

"Very well." He turned a comer, and said, "The way it started, I was told, was a guerrilla raid on Blomdal, a little village down the coast. Five German soldiers were killed. The Nazi colonel was very angry. He took hostages, ten for each dead man. If the guilty did not give themselves up, he proclaimed, the hostages would die. Nobody surrendered. The fifty hostages were shot. Sigmund disappeared. He was not heard from for months. It was thougt that remorse had affected him, perhaps, or that his superiors in England had disapproved of his behavior and withdrawn him permanently. The Germans relaxed. Then one night there was a strong attack—at least it looked like a strong attack; actually it was carried out by only a handful of men—on a munitions depot at Varsj0en, back in the hills. But a big attack had been expected. A quisling had given information. The Germans were ready. They had a great trap prepared, utilizing every soldier who could be spared; they were going to catch Sigmund at last—"

"Did the men know they were being sent into a trap?" "It is said they did not. It is also said that the informer had actually been fed his information by one of Sigmund's agents. All this has been said, but it has not been proved. The facts are that, with most of the Nazi soldiers engaged back in the mountains, Sigmund was free to make his arrangements on the coast by Rosviken, through which a troop transport was scheduled to pass that night." "Rosviken," I said. "The Bay of Roses. Nice." "Yes, there were red roses blooming there that night," said Rolf, apparently a poet at heart. "Everything went as planned. The explosion occurred at the proper time and place. The ship sank. The German troops that were not killed outright, and did not die of exposure or drowning, were dispatched by Sigmund's guerrillas as they struggled ashore. In the morning, on the door of the Nazi headquarters, was a neat sign in German. I'll try to translate: TEN FOR ONE IS THE GAME, HERR OBERST. YOUR MOVE."

I whistled softly. "Our naval friend plays rough." "I was only a boy at the time," Rolf said, "but I remember that there was much talk against Sigmund by those who thought it was too terrible a thing even for war—you heard my grandmother. But others, well, it was a bad time for Norway, and there were many who took new heart, hearing that the brutal Nazis had for once been given a taste of—how do you say it?—their own medicine, by someone as strong and brutal as themselves. Because the joke was on the Nazi Oberst, the colonel. He could not, even if he wanted to, even if he had the authority, execute five or six thousand Norwegians in reply. Not up here in the north where there are not so many people. There would have been no one left to do the work. He was removed shortly afterwards in disgrace. . . . Here you are, Eric. Good luck."

"Sure," I said, getting out. "Thanks." "Just walk straight down the road to the left." It was a long hike in the dark, but it was easy walking along a reasonably good, gravel road, and at this time of night there was no traffic. For a while I had the sea, or an arm of it, gleaming on my right; then the bay ended, and the road swung out onto a peninsula of sorts, and there was the airstrip behind a chain-link fence. The road branched, the main thoroughfare such as it was leading left to what seemed to be an unfenced boarding area, while a smaller track swung off to the right. I took this, and found a little dirt parking lot behind a knob of rock, the top of which could be reached by climbing a fairly steep footpath, visible even in the dark. Obviously, this was where the local folks came to watch the flying machines land and take off. Obviously, it was also the hill specified for the rendezvous.

I climbed up there and looked around, first glancing at my watch: two o'clock. It seemed unlikely that there'd be enough light for our timid contact man to make his appearance much before six, not with the sky overcast and a fine rain falling. And if I'd calculated correctly, Elfenbein could hardly have got his people out here yet.

Again, I was betting on human nature. There are advantages to hiring mercenaries on a temporary basis—you don't have to pay them when they're not working for you —but you don't have the control over them that you do over men, or women, who depend on you for their regular paycheck. I doubted that some stray thugs picked up in an Oslo alley, or wherever they'd been recruited from, would accept an order that involved waiting in ambush half the night in an Arctic drizzle. Even if they did say ja, I was betting that, being sensible men, they'd stop their car somewhere along the way and kill a couple of hours, at least, with the heater running, before they exposed themselves to the cold and wet.

I studied the situation carefully, therefore, in the misty darkness, as if I had all the time in the world. After all, if anybody was ahead of me, he'd already seen me, and I'd worry about him when he made his move. There was another dim, rocky rise back along the road, from which I could watch the approaches as well as the rendezvous; but that was too obvious. I decided on a slight elevation even farther back, and made my way there, and settled down to wait.

Four hours is a long time to sit on a wet hunk of granite in the dark without moving. Fortunately, it was a windless night; I probably couldn't have survived the wind-chill factor, as they call it nowadays, if an icy breeze had been blowing. I was pretty well protected from the rain by an overhanging rock behind me, but that didn't help as much as it might have, since I'd already got pretty damp, walking. What I needed was a pair of insulated duck boots, a goose-down hunting jacket with a waterproof parka over it, warm mittens, and a heavy hood or cap. What I had was city shoes, a lined raincoat designed to keep me warm and dry while making the safari between the house and the car, a pair of thin, leather gloves, and a soggy felt hat. It wasn't the most comfortable morning of my life.

I'd told myself four hours, so as not to get my hopes up, but I'd actually expected action before then. Elfenbein was bound to plant some men out here before daylight. It was the obvious move, of course, but it was also, I thought, the only move. He had no alternative, unless he was a lot brighter than I was and had been able to think up something I couldn't. Apparently, geological genius or no, he wasn't quite that smart, which was just as well for me.

They came without lights, just a car's black shape moving along the shore. It stopped where the road made its turn around the head of the bay. Two figures got out, indistinct blobs in the darkness. Okay. Denison had said three, and there they all were, if you counted the driver. I hadn't expected Elfenbein himself to appear at the battle-front. It wasn't his style or what I figured to be his style, and he had a crippled hand. The car drove away. The two left behind came along the road. They stopped to hold a consultation; then one headed for the rocky elevation I'd rejected as too obvious, while the other disappeared towards the parking area.

The stalk was easy. I don't know where Elfenbein got them, but an Oslo alley was actually a pretty good guess. Certainly they weren't outdoorsmen. I found the first one, the nearest one, smoking a cigarette; you could smell him a quarter of a mile away. I just followed the scent in, and heard him fidgeting uncomfortably among the rocks up there. He'd be facing the parking lot, the scene of future action, I figured. He was. I came in behind him silently, dropped my looped belt over his head, drew it up tight, and held it for a moment against his frantic struggles; then I released it briefly.

He made a harsh sound, halfway between a choked gasp for breath and a terrified scream for help, very horrible and effective in the still night. I bore down again until he was unconscious, and slipped into his neck the needle of the little drug kit we carry, using the injection that lasts four hours. There are some that last forever, and I had those, too; but it didn't seem necessary or diplomatic to clutter up the Norwegian scenery with a lot of awkward dead men.

The other came in to the scream like a hummingbird to a feeder full of bright, sweet syrup. He hesitated for a moment at the foot of the little hill.

"Karlsen," he hissed, but Karlsen didn't answer. "What's the matter, Karlsen? Is something wrong?" Well, it translated to that, approximately.

Then he started climbing the rocks. He jumped a crevice gracefully—that is, the jump started out gracefully. I spoiled it by reaching up and grabbing a foot, slamming him face-down on the rocks. I hauled him down, half-stunned, and gave him a sleepy-shot, too. I stuffed him into the crack in which I'd been hidden, and went back up to Number One, who'd actually picked himself a pretty good observation post. Sitting there beside him, I reminded myself not to be too proud. There were people around who didn't smoke on duty or march naively in to investigate desperate screams. It wouldn't do to forget it.

The exercise had warmed me, so the rest of the wait was almost tolerable. Gradually, very gradually, things got lighter. Details began to show here and there. A little traffic began to move on the shore road, but the parking area remained empty. The rain had stopped; but it wasn't a climate in which you dried off very rapidly, so my comfort quotient remained at about the same level, low but not unbearable. Five thirty came and went. Now, in the hotel room, Diana would be dressing, I figured, making suitable remarks to a nonexistent male companion. 
Is it considered improper to talk about love, Mr. Helm?
 What did she think we were, anyway, a couple of happy kids on a Vermont ski-tour? 
Love
, for God's sake!

After another long half hour, I heard the car coming, bouncing along the gravel, turning onto the dirt track to the parking area, splashing through the puddles left by the rain. It nosed up against the rocks and stopped. A small girl got out from behind the wheel. It wasn't Diana, of course. She'd have come in a taxi, not a private car.

I don't suppose I'd even hoped she'd make it. You can give them instructions until you're purple from lack of breath but they simply will not believe what they're told in perfect English, or any other language. Not if they're amateurs, they won't. 
I'm not an operative, I'm just a girl
, she'd said; and obviously she'd been as right as could be. Well, I'd taken it into account. I'd made allowances for it, if you want to call them allowances.

I watched Greta Elfenbein climb the path to the lookout, take her little binoculars from the case slung over her shoulder, and pretend to admire the craggy, snow-capped Lofoten scenery around her.

XVII.

I HAD to hand it to our contact. He'd been there all the time, back among the glaciated rocks of the little airport peninsula. He must have arrived very early, even earlier than I, or I'd have seen him come; and he'd stayed silent and unmoving while I scouted the area and found myself a hiding place. He'd remained motionless watching the other two delivered by car. He'd witnessed, more or less, as well as his angle of view and the darkness permitted, the three-man Battle of Svolvaer. He'd waited in his secret spot, betraying nothing, until the girl drove up, parked her car, climbed the hill, and waved her identifying binoculars conspicuously for his benefit.

Now he appeared at last. I was suddenly aware of him among the rocks and brush far off to my right, looking like a gray teddy-bear, in a heavy, hooded, insulated Arctic coverall inside which, I reflected sourly as I shivered in my damp city clothes, he'd probably spent a very comfortable night—a little too warm, if anything. He moved closer and disappeared behind a boulder for several minutes. When I saw him again, he was a changed man: a smallish, middle-aged gent in a dark suit and a sporty leather cap. On his back was a pack, stuffed, presumably, with his survival gear. It didn't make him any more conspicuous in that 
ryggsekk
 country—rucksack to you—than a lady carrying a purse is conspicuous on a New York street.

He passed below me, and I got a good look at him: the Skipper's drunken, bitter, genius. He had an ordinary, sharp-featured, small-man's face. He didn't look like a genius, but they often don't. He didn't look particularly bitter, but that's hard to tell at fifty yards. The big trouble was, he didn't look much like a lush, either; and they mostly do. Well, as I'd already sensed, a lot of things about this operation weren't exactly what they seemed.

He stopped and shrugged the pack off his back and dropped it behind a scraggly bush. Moving quite openly now, he walked up to the small car that had brought the girl—actually a diminutive station wagon. He looked inside and seemed satisfied. I gave him silent thanks for doing that job for me. Wherever Elfenbein's third hired hand was hiding, it apparently wasn't in Miss Elfenbem's back seat. The man in the dark suit started climbing the path up to where Greta awaited him.

It was my turn to move, and I slithered out of my den and wiggled through the rocks and brush, heading in the general direction of the parked car by a fairly well-protected route I'd picked out, waiting. I found a handy hole nearby and crawled in. It was great ambush country. I wondered how many other armed gents with dubious motives had stashed themselves away among the rocks over the centuries, in that convenient Nordic scenery.