Hamilton, Donald - Matt Helm 14 (9 page)

           
I got out, unfastened the hitch, the
safety chains, and the electrical connection, and cranked down the jack to take
the weight of the trailer tongue. Then I gave the fiberglass flank of the boat
an affectionate pat, to tell the little vessel that I wasn't deserting it in
this desolate spot: I'd be back. I mean, hell, I knew it was only metal and
plastic, but did it know? Some day my life might again depend on an extra,
willing, loyal knot or two of speed.

           
We got back into the car, found the
side road I'd glimpsed in the headlights, and started down a track that had
seen no traffic since the last rain, whenever that night have been.

           
Presently I switched off the lights.
It was a long, slow, rough ride in the dark, with brush squealing and scraping
along the sides of the big station wagon in the tighter spots and the trailer
hitch smacking bottom as we crossed the deeper gullies. I passed the right
landmarks, but they seemed much farther apart than when I'd been shown this
trail in daylight, years ago. At last the odometer showed the right mileage. I
stopped, got the wagon turned around, and cut the engine. Getting out, I gave
the oversized vehicle a reassuring slap on the hood, telling it not to get lonely.

           
"Come on, Borden," I
whispered. "There's a flashlight in the glove compartment. Bring it along.
Don't slam the door. Leave it open."

           
She came around the car to me.
"You're weird," she whispered, as we moved off together.

           
"You're really weird, Helm! You
kill people, and then you pat a hunk of machinery on the nose as if.. . as if
it was a horse or a dog or something. As if you really liked it!"

           
"Like it?" I said.
"Hell, I think it's a miserable, sluggish,
overstyled
gas hog, but I wouldn't dream of hurting its feelings by telling it so. And I
don't want it to worry while I'm gone, either. I mean, it might get mad and
refuse to start when we get back." I saw her glance at me sharply in the
darkness, to see if I was serious. I grinned and stopped grinning. "That's
enough talking. Watch where you're putting your feet. We're getting
close."

           
Suddenly the fence was right in
front of us. It was an impressive thing, all right, even in the dark, topped
with barbed wire and equipped with enough warning devices- I knew, although
they weren't readily visible-to protect those inside against anything but an
open tank attack or inside treachery. But in our line of business we try to
think of all contingencies, and no experienced agent is going to put himself into
a place, even a forty-thousand-acre place, that he can't slip out of secretly
if necessary.

           
I took the flashlight from the girl
and, after some careful consideration, aimed it at a bush that was out of range
of the TV monitor I'd seen on my long-ago tour of inspection. Hoping the
installation hadn't been changed in the years that had passed-I should have
been told, but that didn't necessarily mean I would have been-I pressed the
button for three long flashes. I paused, gave two short squirts of light, and
stuck the torch, as our British friends call it, into my pocket.

           
Then I waited. I guess I was
expecting something to go wrong: alarms to ring, searchlights to glare, savage
hounds to come baying along the wire. Nothing of the sort happened. There was merely
a soft rustle in the brush off to the right.

           
A woman's voice whispered,
"Give me a word, whoever you are."

           
"Would
Ragnarok
do?" I asked.

           
"No, but you're close. Try some
other Armageddon."

           
"How about
Gotterdämmerung
?"

           
A slim figure in pants stood up,
brushed the dust off her clothes, and came forward. "I hope you've got
some water," the low voice said. "Or ice-cold beer for a preference.
God, this is a miserable dry country to hide out hi!"

           
There was a water jug in the car-in
that part of the country, it's standard 'auto equipment, along with a
shovel-but we had to wait until we got back to the boat and its built-in
icebox, which I had replenished in San Carlos, before we could supply the beer.
While the fugitive was quenching the remainder of her thirst with
Carta
Blanca, I hitched up the rig. Then I came forward
once more, reached behind the front seat of the wagon, and produced a paper bag
which I handed him.

           
"There's a hamburger," I
said. "Cold, but better than nothing. I figured you might be hungry. But
you'd better eat while we drive; I'd like to get as far from here as possible
as fast as possible."

           
"Yes, of course. You didn't
think to bring me any clothes?"

           
I'd thought it pretty damn
considerate of me to buy an extra hamburger.

           
I said, "We've been a little
too busy to go shopping, lady. We practically had to fight our way in here
tooth and nail. Two men died that you might live. I considered it a pretty good
trade at the time, but I could change my mind."

           
The woman laughed softly in the
darkness. "I'm very sorry; I apologize. It was sweet of you to think of
the hamburger. I'll take the back seat; I'm too dirty to associate with
civilized people. Before we start, is there any more of that wonderful Mexican
beer?" As I was getting the station wagon rolling, starting up very
cautiously so the rear wheels wouldn't dig down into the sand of the arroyo,
her voice came from behind me: "Oh, I almost forgot. I know we should get
out of here, but there's something. .. . What are our chances of sneaking up to
the front gate; and have you got any night glasses?"

           
"I've got a pretty good pair of
seven-by-fifties," I said. "But as for the front gate, if the guards
are doing any kind of a job, we haven't got a chance in the world of getting
through-"

           
"I didn't say through, I said
to. Just close enough for you to get a good look with your binoculars. There's
been a sort of conference at the ranch. It should be breaking up about now,
judging by what I overheard, and I think you might be interested in identifying
one or two of the participants as they drive out."

           
I glanced at her over my shoulder.
Even in the gloom of the car, she didn't look much like the well-groomed lady
agent with whom I'd expected to make contact. She looked more like a great
white huntress after a tough safari; the general impression was one of soiled
khakis, sunburned skin, and stringy hair.

           
"How long have you been hiding
out back there?" I asked.

           
"Two days. I didn't really
expect you for another day or two; and I wouldn't have taken off so early with
just a two-quart canteen and a couple of candy bars if I hadn't been warned. .
. . You remember Jake Lister?"

           
"The orthopedic man at the
ranch?" The rig was picking up speed now on a solid gravel road. "Sure,
I remember Dr. Jake. Always thinking up fancy new exercises to inflict on his
victims-excuse me, patients. Aside from that, he's a good man. What about
him?"

           
"Well," said Lorna dryly,
"apparently Dr. Stern has been happily playing director in his usual
trusting and democratic fashion, calling all the help by their first names and
insisting they call him Tom. However, Dr. Jake's had a few reservations about
some of the people hired lately, in spite of their glowing recommendations and
iron-clad security clearances. Maybe being black tends to shake a man's
innocent faith in all humanity. Anyway, Dr. Jake got word somehow that things
were about to blow, and he tipped me off, since I was the only senior agent in
residence at the moment. I just had time to change into something durable and
grab a few basic supplies and get away. The enemy was closing in with inside
help as I sneaked out. There was some shooting. I waited to see if Lister or
Stern or somebody would make it clear, but nobody came."

           
There was a little silence. At last
I asked, "What about this conference you mentioned?"

           
"That happened the next night,
last night. Nobody seemed to be chasing me, or even to know I was missing, so I
took a chance-I didn't figure you'd be that early, and if you were you could
wait-and circled back after lying in the shade of a rock all day with a
friendly Gila monster for company. I took up a position on the mesa south of
the main ranch buildings and watched. Everything seemed quiet, but the guards
weren't our guards any longer. Right after dark, a couple of cars came in. They
got the VIP treatment from the help, so I figured it was worth risking a closer
look. I made my way down there and crawled to where I could watch the long
porch outside the living room, figuring somebody interesting might step out for
a breath of fresh,
unairconditioned
oxygen-"

           
I said, "Around these parts,
that porch is known as a portal, ma'am. Accent on the last syllable."

           
"All right, portal. Anyway,
pretty soon, out came guess who?"

           
There was only one logical answer,
considering everything. I said, "A smart political operator who considers
himself an intelligence expert, named Herbert Leonard."

           
"How did you know?" The
woman in back sounded disappointed.

           
"I called
Washington
today," I said. "I've been kind
of out of touch down in
Mexico
. I was told
Herbie'd
taken over practically the whole intelligence community in some kind of a fancy
power play backed by strong political influence, exact source unknown."

           
"Yes, of course. Well, Leonard
must have learned of the existence of the ranch somehow, and decided that a
secret, well-protected installation like that was just the headquarters he
needed for his political intrigues. But 1 bet you can't guess the name of the
person to whom he was talking."

           
"Since you put it like that, I
won't even try."

           
"If I said the lady was an
elected representative of the
US
people, with strange political notions and
strong presidential ambitions, would that help?"

           
I whistled softly. "You mean
the
senatress
, herself?"

           
"I mean the lady senator from
Wyoming
, the first state to give women the
vote." The voice from the back seat was dry. "I mean the gray-haired,
motherly old bag who's been giving all women's rights movements a bad name,
after they helped elect her, by associating herself with various sinister
groups she apparently thinks will help her become the first lady president of
the United States. Senator Ellen Love, in her standard costume of dowdy print
dress and gold-rimmed glasses, and whether she's a naïve little old lady
victimized by a lot of sharp operators, or a pious fraud, doesn't really
matter. The final result is the same. I want you to see her for yourself,
holding hands with Herbert Leonard, so that if anything happens to me you won't
start wondering if maybe I wasn't having hallucinations in the heat."

           
I didn't try to bring the car near
the vantage point I selected, from my memories of the terrain, as the most
suitable observation post. For one thing, no road ran close to the spot and I
didn't figure the big station wagon was up to any cross-country jeep antics.
For another, even if we could have made it, here at the front of the ranch
there were more guards, and probably more alert guards, than at the rear, and
one of them might hear the sound of the engine. I settled for a two-mile
midnight
hike.

           
My two companions made no complaints
as we picked our way across the desert, climbing gradually. I just heard an
occasional stifled gasp as one of them encountered a cactus in the dark. I met
a few sharp thorns myself. Then we were on the ridge overlooking the broad,
shallow valley, rising and narrowing to the left. A dirt road ran up the valley
and entered the ranch through a gate below us.

           
There was no guard house or sentry
box. Here, it was just an ordinary-looking, padlocked ranch gate in a ranch
fence that was just a little higher and sturdier than usual- the kind of fence
a rich sportsman might put up who'd stocked his place with exotic game-but if
you approached and tried to open it in the wrong manner, or if somebody had
passed the wrong word about you or neglected to pass the right one, you'd find
yourself subjected to an accurate crossfire from two neighboring elevations. At
least that was the way it had been before Leonard took over, and while he'd
undoubtedly changed the personnel, it seemed unlikely that he'd made much
change in the security procedures on such short notice.

           
We lay there a while, watching the
vacant, light streak of road in the empty, dark wasteland below. At last Martha
Borden stirred and glanced my way.

           
"It doesn't look as if they're
coming. Or maybe they've already gone."

           
I realized this was the first thing
she'd said since we sneaked up to the fence together, a good many miles back.
Apparently the presence of another woman had an inhibiting effect on her.

           
"We'll wait a little
longer," I said.

           
"I don't want to seem
inquisitive." This was Lorna's voice from the other side of me. "I
don't want to pry, but just who is she?"

           
I said, "I'm sorry. I've been
neglecting my social duties. Lorna, meet
Nicki
, and
vice versa. I'm Eric, in case you didn't know."

           
"Even if I hadn't been told to
expect you, there aren't all that many agents six-and-a-third feet tall. But
what's she doing here, if I may ask?"

           
"She's a messenger girl,"
I said. "She carries the word from
Washington
, and doles out pieces of it as the spirit
moves her."

           
"How far do you trust
her?"

           
"Almost as far as I trust
you," I told Lorna, "which isn't saying a great deal. But not quite
as far. A little less."

           
I was aware of Martha giving me a
quick, startled glance, but it was Lorna who spoke:

           
"Why more doubts in her
case?"

           
"Because I know you, by
reputation at least. I don't know her, and she does some very peculiar things.
For instance, this afternoon, two men came after us in a car. One had a gun.
He'd have started shooting if I'd let him get into position. He'd have shot at
me, to be sure, but he could easily have hit our girl friend here. She was
sitting right beside me. And if he had succeeded in hitting me, I'd undoubtedly
have wrecked the station wagon, and she'd probably have been hurt or killed.
However, I managed to run the would-be murderers off the road so they piled up
fatally. What did our girl do? Did she throw her arms around me and kiss me for
saving her life? No, she gave me hell for being a callous assassin. How far
would you trust a girl with reactions like that, Lorna?"

           
"Not very far. Particularly not
if she was supposed to have been selected and trained for our line of
work." Lorna had got the point, all right. Her voice was cold. "But
we'd better discuss it later. Get your binoculars ready. Here comes the caravan
now."

           
We saw the loom of the lights back
in the hills; then the cars appeared at the head of the open valley, raising
clouds of dust that caught the headlight beams. There were two sedans, followed
by a jeep.

           
"Check the lead car,"
Lorna's voice said. "The lady senator's homey image won't let her ride in
a brand-new Cadillac, but she seems to figure she can get away with one five
years old."

           
Watching the car through the
seven-power glasses with the big lenses, I said, "You don't like her much,
do you, Lorna?"

           
"I don't like suckers and I
don't like phonies. She's either one or the other. Either she's putting one
over on the American people or somebody's putting one over on her-somebody
like, for instance, Herbert Leonard. Isn't that his slick white hair in the
rear of the old Cadillac? Who's beside him?"