The Terminators (20 page)

By the time I was established, they'd made themselves acquainted up on the lookout hill. They were admiring the girl's unique and priceless little binoculars. The man was permitted to look through them. He approved what he saw. He made the offer. The girl said she wouldn't dream of selling for all the oil in Arabia—well, she said something obviously negative. The man gave a resigned shrug, wound the strap around the glasses, lifted the case hanging from Greta's shoulder, and put the instrument away for her, tenderly. He raised his cap in polite farewell, came down the hill, retrieved his 
ryggsekk
, and hiked away in the direction of Svolvaer. If he'd been hitting the bottle all night, as the Skipper's description would have led me to expect, he certainly carried it well.

Now the girl was coming down the path, still in the red-checked slacks she'd worn on shipboard. She was really kind of a cute little thing, protected by a jaunty yellow raincoat and sou'wester hat—well, that's what they were called years ago when they were made of heavy oilskin and considered high-fashion headgear by the rugged fishermen on the Grand Banks schooners. There's probably some cutiepie name for them now.

I waited for her to reach the car. That missing third man made me nervous. I waited until the last possible moment, hoping he'd reveal himself if he was around. Then I rose with the Llama pistol in my hand.

"Please hold it right there. Miss Elfenbein.''

With the car door half open, she froze; but I saw her move desperately, sweeping her bleak surroundings, looking for the help she'd obviously been promised would be there if she needed it. I moved forward.

"They're sleeping soundly, ma'am," I said. "Let's not disturb the poor fellows. After traveling so far to give your dad a hand, I'm sure they can use the rest."

She licked her lips. "Did you kill them like you did Bj0rn?"

"No, I just put them gently to sleep, as I said. Where's Madeleine Barth?"

Her head came up. I could see hope and courage return, at the reminder that she wasn't really in such a bad spot, after all.

"My father has her! She is his prisoner. And if anything happens to me—"

"Aren't you being just a wee bit stupid, Greta? It cuts both ways."

"What do you mean?"

"I've got you," I said. "And I can be just as nasty as Papa—"

I stopped, listening. The sound of a plane motor was in the air, faint but growing stronger. I glanced at my watch: six-forty. The boys were early. According to the arrangements proposed by me, and made by Rolf, they weren't supposed to arrive until seven-thirty. I'd given myself that much time to get the job done. Well, early was better than late. The job was done. I'd be happy to get out of here sooner than anticipated, although I'd have preferred to be leaving with other company.

I took the cased binoculars. Greta made no protest. The case wasn't properly closed; it couldn't be, with all that paper stuffed inside. Apparently Dr. Elfenbein, unlike our team, hadn't taken the trouble to construct a specially oversized case for the job. There were two envelopes. One contained a lot of scientific-looking stuff in Norwegian, very much like the stuff in the envelope already in my pocket. The other went in more for mechanical drawing. There wasn't time to examine it closely. I put the two envelopes where they could keep company with the third. I was a success. I'd obtained the secret formula upon which depended the fate of great nations, or something. Now all I had to do was deliver it.

"Okay, get into the car," I said, and when she was behind the wheel and I was sitting beside her, I went on: "Now start up and drive us around to the boarding area. Leave the car pointing straight out to sea."

There was nobody around. Maybe there was never anybody around unless a plane was due; or maybe Mac had pulled some strings somewhere. Rolf had said the formalities were being arranged. The sea was a few hundred yards beyond the airstrip. There were spectacular rocky islands out there, rising abruptly from the water to heights entitling them to mantles of snow, but I wasn't really interested in scenery. I was thinking of a pale, slim girl with funny greenish eyes; but she wasn't significant, either, any more than the view, not any longer. All agents are expendable, I reminded myself firmly. Nobody lives forever, particularly if they get themselves mixed up with ingenious, effective, and ruthless individuals like a certain Henry Priest—and a certain Matthew Helm. Anyway, with the daughter for leverage, maybe I could pry her loose later, when I had the time and if she lasted that long.

I looked towards the approaching plane, frowning, because it wasn't sounding quite right. Then I saw it take shape in the misty distance, and it wasn't a plane at all, but a helicopter. Well, come to think of it, Rolf hadn't said anything about airplanes. He'd used the word aircraft, covering everything from gliders to Zeppelins. But I'd kind of been figuring on the pilot making a swing over the runway to look things over, before he went around and came on in. With a chopper, he could take his time and see everything he needed to see, hovering if necessary, as he made his landing on the first pass.

I said, "Turn the car a bit, facing that way."

Greta obeyed. I reached across to get the headlight switch and gave the signal; three and two. She made no attempt to take advantage of my awkward position; but when I straightened out, she said rather accusingly: "You're just going to fly away and leave your assistant behind?" •

"That's right," I said. "What was your daddy's plan, anyway?"

She hesitated, and shrugged, realizing that it was a little too late to be concerned about security.

"The same as it has always been, right from the start, Mr. Helm," she said. "To remove your Mrs. Barth and substitute me. Those two men were supposed to protect me if you tried to interfere. We hoped they'd be able to trap you, of course: but even if they didn't, if they just drove you off, well, I'd get the material on the Sigmund Siphon and the Torbotten oil field—as I just did. You'd still have the Ekofisk and Frigg data, but we'd have your Mrs. Barth. An exchange would have been arranged—"

She stopped, because I was laughing. "Oh, dear," I said. "Oh, dearie me. And I'd docilely turn over the papers, any papers, rather than see my precious Girl Friday get hurt? Oh, my goodness gracious me. Miss Elfenbein, what a pretty dream world you folks live in, to be sure!"

"You mean you wouldn't have—"

"We don't play the hostage game, ma'am. We can't afford to. We let it be known that it's no damned use anybody holding any of us for ransom, because it won't be

paid. Your daddy should have checked a little more thoroughly."

"You'd let her die—"

'If necessary," I said. "At the moment, it isn't necessary. I've got you, and your papa's smart enough to know that one pretty girl is just as vulnerable as another, I hope. But please don't figure it's ironclad insurance. If you make enough trouble that it's simpler just to shoot you and roll you into a handy ditch, well, to hell with Mrs. Barth. She didn't make it. We don't have much patience with people who don't make it. She had her instructions. She had her gun and plenty of ammunition. . . . How many shots did she get off before your goons managed to disarm her, just as a matter of curiosity?"

"None, Mr. Helm. Because she had no gun when they broke into the room." I started to speak and checked myself. After a moment, Greta went on: "By the greatest good luck for us, she'd lent her gun to your Captain Priest and he'd stepped out for a moment. We were watching, we saw him tucking it away as he came out of the room, and heard him thank her for the loan. Naturally, we grabbed the opportunity while he was gone—"

I drew a long, long breath. "Thanks, that's what I wanted to know. Just one more question. There were three men, one driving the car. Where'd the driver get to, since he doesn't seem to be around?"

She hesitated cautiously once more; then she laughed. "It doesn't matter now, I suppose. Papa has a good deal of respect for you, Mr. Helm; and while Aloco's Mr. Yale is still with him, I'm afraid he doesn't think much of Norman as a bodyguard. The third man had strict orders to come straight back, just in case you managed to escape the ambush here and went looking for Papa."

I grinned. "Nothing like a dangerous reputation, I always say. Well, let's go take a ride in a whirly-bird. . . ."

It was a relatively big machine to pull itself up by its own bootstraps—or lower itself down, as it was doing now. The only bigger ones I'd seen close up had had U.S. marked clearly on the fuselages. A private chopper this size, capable of carrying four people, would be worth somewhere around a million bucks; it would also be worth a lot of status in executive circles. But of course it wasn't a private chopper, at least not at the moment. Regardless of its civilian markings, it was operating on official U.S. government business. I couldn't help wondering just how our people had managed to promote such fancy airborne transportation in this chilly comer of the world, but that's the kind of question you never ask.

We waited clear of the spray and small stones driven out from under the machine as it settled to the rain-wet runway. Then the rotor slowed, just ticking over idly, and the door opened. I shoved the girl ahead, and hurried forward with her, ducking low although there was actually plenty of clearance under the big, slow-turning blades, even for a man of my height. Greta clambered through the doorway or hatch. When she was inside, I pulled myself up, and stopped, looking at a revolver aimed at my face.

"Welcome aboard, Eric," said Paul Denison.

XVIII.

IT was one of those moments. You know you've goofed, and goofed badly; and what the hell are you going to do about it—if anything?

I had my options, of course. I could hurl myself backwards onto the runway and, if I didn't knock my brains out, roll aside, make that lightning draw that had earned me worldwide renown—actually, we're supposed to be smart enough to have a weapon in hand when it's needed, and to hell with that fast-draw, jazz—and shoot it out heroically. The trouble was, I happened to know that Denison was an excellent marksman with very fast reflexes. If I did anything melodramatic, I'd hit the pavement dead if he wanted me dead And even if he missed, and I actually got a gun out, I wasn't quite certain that I wanted him dead, at least not yet. The crystal ball was still cloudy; and I wasn't sure it was that kind of a last-ditch situation, worth cluttering up the neighborhood with a lot of bloody stiffs, mine perhaps included.

There was, of course, the verbal option: I could tell him he couldn't get away with this, and what the hell did he think he was doing, and I'd get him for it if it was the last thing I did, and if I didn't Mac would see that he was properly terminated, immediately. However, I wasn't a Hollywood hero and there were no cameras or mikes aimed my way—just the lone Colt .38—so I didn't waste time being brave with my mouth.

I said, "The gun's under my belt. The knife's in my right-hand pants pocket. Do you get them, or do I?"

He grinned. "Good old matter-of-fact Eric." He reached out. "I'll take the gun. You get the knife. Division of labor. Okay?"

A moment later, minus both weapons, I was occupying the seat beside the pilot, a sandy-haired, moustached gent, who, like a lot of those fly-boys, didn't seem to figure guns and knives were any of his business. He just drove the airborne buggy and kept his mouth shut.

Behind me, Denison said, "Okay, Jerry, take this thing upstairs. Swing either north or south and get out of sight fast. There'll be a plane coming in from the coast shortly, and we'd rather they didn't see us, don't you know, old chap?"

I waited until the roar and clatter of takeoff had subsided and the air strip was receding into the mists behind us. Then I asked, "What's with this old-chap business, amigo?''

Denison chuckled. "Ah, hell, us glamorous mercenaries are all supposed to be dead-eye, stiff-upper-lip British types who used to shoot elephants for a living. Anyway, Gerald here is an old-chap type, and one kind of tends to mimic it, don't you know?"

"Up yours," said Jerry Gerald without turning his head.

"Well, he's picked up a little Yankee slang along the way." Out of the comer of my eye, I saw Denison glancing at the diminutive occupant of the seat to his left. Greta Elfenbem was sitting very still and keeping very quiet; she didn't give the impression of being happy with the situation. Denison said, "You seem to've switched girls since I last had you under surveillance, Eric."

"That's right."

"Left your partner to Elfenbein and took the daughter in trade, eh? Very neat. I figured you might pull something tricky like that. Happy to see you haven't lost your touch."

"I'm happy you're happy," I said. "Who talked?"

I was thinking of Rolf, reluctantly and of the grandmother who hated Sigmund. But Granny wouldn't have known enough about my arrangements to betray them to Denison unless Rolf had told her, deliberately or carelessly; so it came back to the friendly taxi driver, our man in Svolvaer.

"Nobody talked," Denison said. "Or, let's say, you did."

I glanced around quickly, maybe indignantly. He gestured with the revolver. I turned my head forward again. He laughed.

"Seven, eight, nine years ago, you talked," he said. "Don't you remember? You talked quite a bit, about getting into the mmd of the other man and looking at the situation through his eyes. Sitting at the Master's feet, I drank in his golden words, if that's what you do with golden words. Maybe you eat them."

"Go to hell," I said.

"In due time; don't rush me," Denison said cheerfully. "Another thing you said, another nugget of wisdom I've treasured through the years, is that if there's only one logical thing for a man to do, and he's a logical man, you can probably gamble safely on his doing it. Consider this morning, Eric. You're certainly a logical fellow; and there you'd be, I figured, with all that valuable data. . . . Oh, let's have it, if you don't mind. The valuable data."

"Be my guest," I said. I took the three envelopes from my inside pocket, held them back over my shoulder, and felt them taken away. "Do you read scientific Norwegian?" I asked.