The Ambushers (8 page)

“I understand your station wagon is ailing mechanically. There is a reasonably new Volkswagen in Phoenix you can have if you like. As for weapons,” Mac went on, “if you need anything special, you’ll have to supply yourself locally or give us time to send out what you want. If you need an assistant, one can be provided. There are some young people at the ranch for training, one of whom might as well be picking up a little practical experience. He could, for instance, get the interviews started while you make a preliminary investigation along the border.”

“Well, eleven blocks is a lot of houses,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind a little help, but I don’t particularly want a green kid tagging along.” I hesitated. The idea that had come into my mind was ridiculous, but I heard myself saying: “What about Sheila? She’s been around long enough to learn the ropes a little.”

“Sheila?” It took a lot to surprise him, but I’d managed.

“She wants out,” I said. “Out of here. That’s what she came to tell me last night.”

“It’s out of the question,” Mac said. “Dr. Stern says—”

“Dr. Tommy has a thing about curing people, I’m afraid,” I said. “I think he sometimes forgets that his job isn’t to make us into perfectly adjusted human beings, it’s to return us to the front lines in good shooting condition. Hell, if he ever managed to adjust us, we’d quit this racket. The girl walks and talks now, and she wants out.”

“You’re being sentimental,” Mac said.

“Yes, sir.”

“She is in no shape to—”

“To ask silly questions and record the silly answers on a questionnaire? If she isn’t now, she will be in ten days. It could be a damn sight better for her than staying here and having Tommy and his nurses tinkering with her subconscious. Occupational therapy, we call it.”

There was a long silence. Then his voice came reluctantly: “You’d be responsible, Eric. And remember, we have doctors on the payroll but you’re not one of them. You have other duties, which must come first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is no accounting for tastes, of course,” he said deliberately. “But I thought there was a lady in Texas—”

I said, “What’s my love life got to do with this?”

“Then what—”

I grimaced at the sound-proof paneling in front of me. “As you say, I’m being sentimental, sir. Do you remember a man we called Vance?”

“Why, yes. He died up in northern Europe.”

“Yes, sir. And do you remember a man we called LeBaron?”

“Yes. He died... Oh, I begin to see. Vaguely.”

“Yes, sir. LeBaron was killed in Juarez, Mexico, helping me. Vance was killed in Kiruna, Sweden, helping me. And how many other good agents have I taken out and lost in the line of duty? So when for once in my life I find one instead and bring her back alive, I’d just kind of like to see that she makes it all the way. Dr. Tommy himself will admit he can’t do anything for her unless she wants him to, and she doesn’t. Maybe I can.”

“Very well.” His voice was crisp. “As I say, it’s your responsibility. She can start the interviews a week from Wednesday. You’d better head down towards Antelope Wells as soon as the medical department approves. But be sure you get back to Tucson in time to take over if something goes wrong.”

I said, “Yes, sir. If she blows up on the job I’ll ship the pieces back here and handle the rest of it myself.”

“Just remember,” he said, “the mental health of one agent, or even her life, or yours, is not really significant against the larger picture.”

He was starting to talk like an ad man in his old age. “The larger picture,” I said. “Yes, sir. We’ll get you von Sachs.”

The border country hadn’t changed much in the time I’d been away. It was still a barren, yellowish-gray-green landscape with only an occasional cottonwood for a tree and an occasional dark mountain range to break the monotony of the rolling, empty plain. The farther south I proceeded towards Antelope Wells, the less there was to see. Anybody who wants to call it a desert will get no argument from me, although once in a while I’d drive past a windmill and water tank that would seem to indicate that this desolate-looking land was, after all, owned by somebody and used for raising something besides cactus and rattlesnakes.

After asking all the questions I could think of down there—finding somebody to ask was the real problem—I headed back to Tucson where I stopped in a sporting goods store that had a selection of hunting rifles, some with real pretty stocks dolled up with decorative inlays and thick rubber recoil pads. Unfortunately I was spending the government’s money, and I doubted that I could prove to a cold-eyed department accountant that a fancy gun shoots better than a plain one, since I didn’t really believe it myself. As for recoil pads, there’s a theory to the effect that a lot of soft rubber between you and the gun just gives it a running start before it socks you.

Acting like a deer hunter getting a jump on the season, I picked out a standard light Winchester M70, therefore, in the good old reliable .30-06 caliber. They had some Magnums on the rack, but I didn’t have the time or the facilities to fix up this gun like the one I’d left with Jiminez in Costa Verde. I’d have to shoot standard factory ammunition, for one thing, instead of working out a special load for the gun.

It couldn’t be an extra-long-range, super-precision deal this time, and the lighter cartridge would shoot far enough for the accuracy I could expect, besides being easier on the shoulder. I bought several boxes in each of several bullet weights. You never know which bullet a gun is going to like best until you try it. I got a medium-priced four-power scope and had them mount it while I waited.

Then I took my packages out to the car, which was still the old Pontiac station wagon, partially rejuvenated under the hood. With two of us on the job, two cars had been needed, and this seemed to be one of those years when the CIA or somebody had got to all the undercover dough first. Since I was in better condition to deal with mechanical emergencies than Sheila, I was driving the antique.

I hadn’t seen her since the previous weekend. We’d met for a final briefing session under the cold eye of Dr. Tom Stern, who’d done his best to discourage the whole idea, but she hadn’t let him scare her. I looked for the Volkswagen now as I drove up to the modest tourist court that had been selected as our headquarters in Tucson. I’d been told the car was blue, but there were no fourwheeled foreign bugs of any color around. Well, it was still relatively early in the afternoon, and she should be out interviewing. Nevertheless I found myself disappointed and a little worried. I hoped she hadn’t had a relapse or anything.
It’s your responsibility,
Mac had said.

She’d made a reservation for me around the corner from her unit—also around the corner from the pool, which was full of yelling kids. In that part of the country, even the crummiest hostelries have pools these days. Coronado wouldn’t know the place. I moved my stuff inside, made a routine check around the room, and lay down on the big double bed after making sure the air conditioner was working full blast. There wouldn’t be anything new to think about until I’d talked with my assistant. In the business, you learn to grab sleep when you can, so I did.

I was awakened, presently, by a knocking on the door: three short raps followed after a pause by two more. Under certain circumstances this tells the person behind the door that it isn’t necessary to go for the firearms or depart by the window; under other circumstances, such as the present, it just means
hello, it’s me.
I got up, yawned, and went over to let her in.

“Mr. Evans?” she said for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “Mr. Evans, I’m Sheila Summerton. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I was conducting some interviews on the other side of town, and I didn’t think you’d get in so early.”

“It’s perfectly all right,” I said. “I’m sorry you had to start on the job alone, but I simply couldn’t break away sooner. Won’t you come in?”

I stepped back to let her pass. It was the first time, I realized, that I’d seen her in a dress, a thin, sleeveless, full-skirted number in a gay summer print that somehow managed to make her look very small and fragile. I was a little startled to realize that I was as glad to see her as if she were somebody I knew and liked, instead of just a responsibility I’d taken on for some screwy reason of sentiment.

I closed the door. “Hi, Skinny,” I said.

She frowned quickly, and glanced around the room. “Should we... I mean, is it safe to talk?”

“I’ve made a rough check. Do you have any reason to believe anybody’s interested enough in us to bug our rooms?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s been very dull. And very hot.”

“How far have you got?”

“Two blocks completed. One almost finished. I should clean that up tonight or tomorrow morning.”

I said, “You weren’t supposed to kill yourself, Skinny. Your instructions were to take it easy. Three blocks in three days is overdoing it. You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” she murmured. “There’s nothing like appreciation and flattery to make the troops feel good.” Then she began to cry. She just stood there, holding a brief case in the hand that had the tips of the fingers individually bandaged now, looking at me with the tears running down her face. “Oh, d-damn it,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. I guess I am a little t-tired.”

“Sure,” I said. I reached out and took the briefcase and set it aside. “Sit down before you fall down.”

She didn’t move at once. I put my arm about her shoulders to lead her to a chair, and everything kind of stopped in the room, if you know what I mean. She went perfectly still. After a moment she looked slowly from my face to the hand on her shoulder. The funny yellow light was in her eyes.

“Excuse me,” I said, taking my hand away.

She went to the bed and sat down. After a moment she looked up and said in a perfectly normal voice, “I’m sorry. That’s silly; I’ll have to get over it. You don’t happen to have a spare hanky?”

I got her a clean one out of the dresser drawer. While she was mopping up, I took the cardboard ice bucket provided by the management and went out to fill it at the machine near the office. When I returned, she was sitting where I’d left her, but her face was dry and she had the brief case at her feet, open.

“I’m sorry I made a scene,” she said. “It’s been pretty hot and my feet hurt. Do you want to hear my report?”

“If you want to give it,” I said. “No rush.”

“I’ve got two of the key interviews so far—the addresses that were visited by von Sachs’ courier or recruiter or whatever he was. The first place, 2032 Montezuma Avenue. Fred Winter. A cheap little house in a trashy suburb. The payments are made by Mrs. Winter, a schoolteacher. Winter, a mechanic when he’s working, seems to spend most of his time in front of the television drinking beer by the gallon—judging by the empties—and complaining about his back and other things. Radio, TV. No phonograph or tape recorder. No short-wave equipment in evidence.”

I put a drink into her hand. “Go on, I’m listening.”

“Address number two, 174½ Rosario Lane. Eladio Griego. It’s an adobe shack in Spanish-town, or whatever they call it here. The mother can hardly speak English. I interviewed her, since Eladio’s been in jail since last week for knifing a man. It’s happened before, I gather.”

“But he wasn’t in jail at the time the courier came around?”

“No. They’ve got a radio but it doesn’t work. There’s a functioning TV. No phonograph or tape recorder. The place was dark and full of broken-down furniture. There could have been all kinds of electronic equipment hidden in the mess, but I don’t really think there was.”

I frowned. “Of course, we don’t know that it’s the man of the house who’s involved in every case. Come to that, we don’t even know that every address that was visited is significant. The guy could have taken time off to call on his girl, or his favorite uncle, or something.”

“Well, so far I’d say we have two good prospects,” Sheila said. “I didn’t meet Mrs. Winter, she was busy at school. But her husband is a surly brute with a grudge against society, which makes him a promising candidate. Old Mrs. Griego is feeble and half blind, but her Eladio is apparently a husky boy who’d kick your head in just for fun. Good strong-arm material.”

“Unfortunately Eladio’s not going to do us much good in jail,” I said. “We’d have to pull too many strings to get at him. We have to find somebody we can work on easily, who knows where von Sachs-Quintana has his headquarters down in Mexico. This beer-swilling Winter character doesn’t sound as if he’d be trusted with that kind of information, even if he is a member of the outfit.” I sipped my drink. “Anything promising in this third block you’ve been working?”

Sheila glanced down at a paper in her hand. “Number three,” she said, “1420 Mimosa Street. Ernest Head. He seems to be a little better off than the first two, judging by the house. He was in when I called, but he’d just got home from work and his wife said he was tired and asked me to come back after dinner. I—” She stopped, frowning.

“What is it?”

“There was something funny. I’ve just remembered. I wanted to ask you about it.”

“Go on and ask.”

“I’m trying to think of it. There was a record player going in a house kind of catty-corner across the back yard. It was turned very loud and the window was open. One of the numbers that was played... it made me feel funny. I mean, it had associations. I’d heard it before, somewhere. I have a feeling it’s important.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed terribly out of place, somehow. Dum dum dum dum, ta dum ta dum ta dum ta... Do you recognize it?”

I grinned. “Well, not really.”

“Oh, dear,” she said ruefully. “I never could carry a tune. I wish I could remember where I’d heard it before.”

“Did you check the house?”

“Of course.”

“It isn’t one of our key addresses?”

“No. I told you. I was going up to that when I heard this music from another place behind it.” Sheila hesitated. “If you’d drive out there tonight with me, you could wait outside and listen. Maybe she’ll play it again. I have a feeling you’d recognize it.”