The Terminators Page 7

  I said, "You're a bloodthirsty bitch."

  "No," she said, "just a practical one."

  "Well, maybe," I conceded. "But it depends. On whether homicide is feasible at this point, in broad daylight, without time to set it up properly or get help lined up."

  She shrugged. "You may be right, darling. I haven't had a great deal of experience at this sort of thing—less than twenty-four hours, actually. But —" She stopped.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Be fair, please," she said quietly. "If I were a professional agent, you wouldn't look at me as if I were some kind of a mad vampire lady, merely Because I point out that a certain person is a serious threat that might better be removed."

  I regarded her for a moment. Again she was perfectly right. I sighed. "My apologies. You are not a bloodthirsty bitch, Miss Lawrence. Okay? Now keep that gun handy, and don't let anybody in you're not sure of. This may take time, so don't get impatient and start roaming around. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  They were just shoving the gangway into place when I got back upstairs—excuse me, topside. Parson Elfenbein and his pretty daughter were not in evidence. The youth whose friend I'd been so mean to last night was still waiting among the greeters and prospective northbound voyagers down on the dock, with his gaudy nylon pack at his feet. He picked it up when the gangplank was opened to traffic, but he had to wait to let the shoregoing passengers get off the ship first, and I was among them.

  Alesund was a colorful little community clinging to the side of a mountain valley half-filled with water. Beyond the town limits, the hillsides above the fjord were covered with small evergreens that looked as if they led hard, precarious lives. The dock was fairly long and had a lot of big crates piled on it awaiting shipment to somewhere. I scanned it hastily as I moved downwards with the rest of the landing party, looking for a spot quiet enough for what I had to do.

  Then he was right in front of me and it was time for me to go into my act. After all, the groundwork had been laid. My lethal reputation, as Mac had termed it, was supposed to have preceded me. Now, if ever, was the time to cash in on it. He pretended not to recognize me, of course; just glancing at me casually and returning his attention to the ship, looking for someone else. He'd performed his mission, whatever it was, and now he wanted to find his immediate superior and make his report.

  "Han kommer inte," I said deliberately, standing there. "He won't be coming. Ever. Han kommer alldrig."

  It was Swedish, not Norwegian, and I didn't know how good Swedish it was after all the years, but it got through. The kid looked at me sharply, lowering his pack. He was blond, like his late partner, but he didn't have the same red-faced, rawboned, rugged look. He was rather a pretty-looking young fellow, as a matter of fact, moderately tall but without much flesh on his substantial Scandinavian bones. He'd have looked swell as a lean young ski instructor in stretch pants, with a charming accent, telling the matrons politely to keep their feet together and their weight forward. People kept pushing past us as we stood there, but they didn't count.

  The boy licked his lips and glanced towards the ship once more. "Bj0rn?"

  "Was that his name?" I asked. "Bj0rn means bear, doesn't it? Well, your big, blond bear went swimming. Out there somewhere. Han simmar ddrute ndgonstans. Only I think he's probably stopped by now. Do you understand what I'm saying, sonny?"

  "I understand," he said. "I speak Swedish, and also English, a little."

  "Good for you," I said in my sneering, overbearing way. "Bj0rn made a serious mistake, you understand. He was very rude to a friend of mine. A lady friend. That wasn't very nice of hun. He really shouldn't have done that, should he, sonny?"

  "Please do not call me sonny, Mr. Helm. Yes, I know your name, of course. My name is Erlan Torstensen. And I do not believe what you say about Bj0rn. He was very strong, very experienced—"

  "Look down, Erlan Torstensen," I said.

  He looked, and I heard his breath catch a little. There was a moment of silence. Up on the ship they were preparing to swing out one of the big cargo booms for unloading.

  "Do you recognize the pistol, Erlan?" I asked softly, concealing the little Llama once more. "Do you think your friend Bj0rn liked me well enough to give it to me as a present? If so, you are more stupid than I think. I took his silly little gun away from him and threw him overboard in the storm. What do you think I am going to do to you?"

  He licked his lips once more. "I am not afraid, Mr. Helm."

  I stared at him for a moment, unbelieving. Then—I couldn't help it—I burst out laughing. A couple of young girls moving past looked our way curiously. I noticed that their glances lingered a bit on Erlan Torstensen. He was a real handsome boy, and a real joker, telling me he wasn't afraid, as if it mattered. Well, of course it mattered, it was the whole point of the exercise, making him afraid; but I can never really understand anybody who thinks his goddamned courage is important enough to discuss in public, as if the world wasn't lousy with heroes already.

  "Come with me," I said. Torstensen hesitated. I said impatiently, ''Komm med mej! Snap into it! Pick up that pack again and march along like a good boy. Over there to the right behind those crates. . . ."

  I wanted to breathe a sigh of relief when I got him there, but of course it would have been out of character for the super-tough and super-confident character I was playing. But anybody dumb enough to talk about his fears or lack of them was dumb enough to do just about anything, even with a gun covering him.

  "All right, Erlan, you can put it down again," I said, and he lowered the heavy backpack to the dock. We had the little alley between the rows of packing cases all to ourselves and they were stacked high enough that we couldn't be seen from the decks of the ship. I said, "Let's talk sensibly now. First, will you take my word that your friend is dead, or should we find Miss Elfenbein and have her confirm it? She saw it; she'll tell you what happened. Bj0rn was a little rash, Erlan, a little overeager, a little too anxious to prove what a brave, strong fellow he was. I think he must have spent too much time lately blackjacking helpless, unsuspecting women. He forgot that there are people who do fight back. Do you believe me now?"

  He nodded slowly. "You have Bj0rn's gun. I believe you."

  I said, "Well, I don't know how you feel about your friend—"

  "He was not my friend," young Torstensen said stiffly. "He was a man with whom I was ordered to work, a rather vulgar and unpleasant man, but a competent operative, I was told, from whom I could learn many things."

  "Good, then there are no personal feelings involved," I said. "You will learn nothing more from Bj0rn, but you may learn something from me. Like how to stay alive. Or how to die. It's up to you, Erlan Torstensen. The next time I see you, I'll kill you. So you had better not let me see you again, had you?"

  The boy watched me intently but didn't speak. I listened for the big crane, but they didn't have it working yet. There was nothing for it but to keep making with the menacing verbiage.

  I went on: "If you want to live, Erlan, I suggest you rapidly take yourself far away where there's not the remotest chance of our ever meeting again. Because if we meet, I will go for you instantly, wherever it is. Don't think I'm bluffing, sonny. I never bluff. On the street, in a crowded theater, on a bus or train or streetcar, wherever. If I ever see your face again, I'll shoot; and I'm a damned good shot. Maybe they'll catch me and put me in jail for it, but you'll be dead. I guarantee it."

  The boy said, "Either you are mad or—"

  "Don't say it," I said. "Don't even think it. I told you, I don't bluff. We had a long talk about you, Mrs. Barth and I. She doesn't like you very much. She doesn't like being hit over the head and thrown into the cold water to swim for her life; and you were there, too, right along with Bj0rn. She told me I ought to kill you before you got orders to try it on your own. Last night she said to me, 'That's fine. Helm, you've taken care of the big dog, now finish the job and go wring the pup's neck for me so I can relax.' She's a rather vindi
ctive lady, Erlan, in spite of her prissy looks. I spoke up for you. Well, not for you, really, but I pointed out that while I didn't much object to disposing of you at a suitable place and time, right here and now there was too much risk of trouble with the authorities, and we can't afford that. So we're giving you a chance, one chance. But only one. If you show up again, here in this town or anywhere along the route, that's it, Erlan. Scratch one Torstensen." I looked at him for a moment; then I gestured. "Okay. That's all. Pick it up and get going. And keep going."

  He hesitated. Then he reached down for the backpack and turned and walked away. They'd got the ship's crane working at last—about time—and there was a lot of whining of gears and motors, and thumping of crates, and rumbling of steel-tired dollies. I grimaced, knowing that most of my fancy menace had been totally wasted. Frightening people is for the birds, anyway; or for the syndicate and its professional bullies and terrorizers. They seem to have a more impressionable class of customers. The folks with whom we deal generally don't terrify much. You've got to shoot them to really impress them. ~ I pulled out the pistol once more, and quickly wound around it the damp towel I'd appropriated from Diana's stateroom.

  "Erlan!" I called.

  He heard me over the dockside noise. Three fast steps would have taken him to safety, but unafraid young Norse heroes don't run. He stopped and turned to face me courageously. I fired. The report was a muffled crash that seemed very loud in the narrow space between the crates. The bullet passed him closely and buried itself m a big carton behind him, with a slapping sound. He jumped, controlled himself, and stood very still. I walked up to him deliberately.

  "Remember," I said. "Any place. Any time. just like that, only a foot and a half to the right. If I see you again, you're dead. Om jag ser dej igen sa dr du dod." I grinned at him wolfishly. "Okay. just a little demonstration, sonny. On your way now."

  They take guns more seriously over there. I saw that I'd made my point at last. The boy's blue eyes were wide and shocked; I saw real fear, at last, in his face. I'd actually discharged a firearm in a public place in broad daylight and nothing was happening to me, not a thing. The big noisy crane was swinging its load ashore as if nothing had occurred. Cars were driving by on the nearby street. People were talking beyond the stacks of cargo, their voices reaching us in snatches through the other din; and a deadly, jacketed, caliber .380 bullet, locally known as a 9mm Kurz, or Short, had passed within a few inches of him. . . .

  He came out of his trance, slung the pack over one shoulder, and turned and hurried away. I heard his footsteps quicken to a run after he'd gone out of sight.

  Busy getting shreds of toweling out of the automatic's works, I turned sharply as something moved at the end of the row of crates behind me. I cleared the mechanism, and dropped the weapon into my pocket, but kept my hand on it.

  "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Matt, going around frightening little children," Denison said, coming forward.

  "Hi, Luke," I said

  VIII.

  HE didn't like it. He hadn't been called that for a long time. His eyes narrowed briefly; then he grinned.

  "You know," he said, "I've been trying to remember that old code name of mine ever since I saw you on the ship last night, and I just couldn't bring it back. Do you think that might be what the shrinks call Freudian forgetfulness?"

  "Hell, you're the one who called us the Four Apostles, which shows how much you know about the Bible," I said. "On that crummy little fishing boat that put us ashore on that dismal coast, remember? Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Only, Mark and John got caught in an unexpected revolution, remember? At least it broke in a way three of us hadn't expected. And down there is where they invented the ley de fuga —you know, give the guy a running start and shoot him in the back and say he was trying to escape. I understand a certain Lincoln Alexander Kotko did real well with the help of the new regime after things settled down; he's been pumping oil out of there ever since. They tell me it's made him big enough that he's now dealing with major powers instead of crummy little military juntas.''

  "He was big enough then," Denison said. "Plenty big enough to have you called off my trail, afterwards. That was part of the deal: protection. And it still goes, so don't finger that gun so hungrily. Your chief—what did we use to call him, Mac?—knows that if any of his people lay a finger on me, his whole outfit will be reorganized out of existence, now. L. A. owns enough elected and appointed politicians in Washington to see to that."

  "L. A.?" I said. "Does he often get mixed up with the city of Los Angeles? Or does he figure that he's so much more important that no confusion is possible? Anyway, I thought the gentleman in question insisted on being called Mister.''

  "It depends on who's doing the calling," said Denison, a little smugly.

  There are three kinds of organization men. The armed forces have theirs, all sucking up to the local general or admiral, but there's a difference. Way down deep they know they're not totally dependent on the Old Man's whims. They've got the Uniform Code of Military justice to fall back on. And in civilian government service we also know that, while it's nice to get along with the department or bureau chief, there are limits to what he can do to us if we don't. But in the private sector you'd damn' well butter up the old boy behind the big desk or you'll be out on your ear. It makes for a real harem mentality and Denison was proudly flaunting his status as senior concubine, one of the few people granted the privilege of referring to Mister Kotko by his initials.

  "I gather you've actually seen the great, elusive, bald man, then," I said. "He does exist?"

  "He exists, all right. Don't kid yourself for a moment that he doesn't. All you have to do is fire that little Spanish automatic and you’ll learn all about Lincoln Alexander Kotko, pronto,"

  I said, "Hell, you make it sound almost worth shooting you for."

  Denison grinned and shook his head. "You can't be all that mad at me after seven years, amigo. You never were that good a hater."

  "Maybe I've been working on it. Maybe I've improved."

  He shook his head again, smiling. "If you really hated me. Matt—I mean, hated me, personally—you'd kill me now and to hell with orders. Tell me something, how did you get away that night? Was it the girl, Elena or Margareta, or whatever her name was? She turned up missing next morning; did she tip you off at the last moment and go with you? Hell, I thought she was my girl."

  "She was," I said. The girl's name had actually been Luisa, and I didn't for a moment believe he'd forgotten it, any more than he'd forgotten Mac's name, or his own. However, if that was the game he wanted to play, I was happy to oblige. I went on: "She loved you, and she didn't want you to have a friend's life on your conscience. They think a lot of friendship down there. Unfortunately, she caught a bullet as she was showing me the back way out— well, we both caught bullets, but I survived mine."

  "Yes, your survival quotient was always pretty damned high," Denison said. There was a little pause. He said, "You're looking good. Matt."

  "You, too," I said.

  He was. He looked as if he had been eating well and sleeping between silk sheets in very attractive company. He had the well-tailored, well-manicured, well-barbered appearance that all the big boys, legitimate or otherwise, seem to insist on for their henchmen. Under the wide, rakish hat, he was wearing his wavy brown hair a little longer than I remembered, in deference to modem male fashion. He had a nice, smooth, expensive tan that made his big teeth look very white when he grinned again, with a glance in the direction Erlan Torstensen had taken.

  "You really leaned on that kid," he said. ''High Noon stuff: Get out of town or get dead. Did you mean what you told him?"

  I made a face. "How the hell do I know? If he shows again, we'll see whether I meant it or not."

  "Where does he fit?"

  "One of Elfenbein's boys," I said. "What's the matter, haven't you done your homework, Paul? Getting sloppy in your old age?"

  "We don't give a damn about El
fenbein," he said. "He's just a small-time operator; clever, sure, but strictly minor league. All that interests us about Adolf Elfenbein is that he's interested, if you know what I mean. He's sharp, and he's got a hell of a lot of good geological experience and training: if he wants something up here—or thinks it's worth his while to take on a client who does—it's worth wanting, and can be had. But otherwise, unless he really threatens to louse up the deal, to hell with him. He's too small for L. A. to bother with."

  "Thanks a lot," I said. "In other words, you're leaving Adolf to me. I appreciate that."

  "You can handle him," Denison said. "What we're worrying about is you—you, and this retired naval hero you seem to have taken under your wing, or vice versa. An old friend of Mac's who helped you all out of a hole a while back, isn't that right? We were glad to hear that, and check it out; otherwise we might have thought you had some other ideas when you offered to give him a hand with this operation. But your chiefs old friend had better produce. Matt. He's made a lot of promises, now he'd better come through. Pass it along. L. A. will do his part, he's interested in getting part of the local action on the terms agreed on, but you'd all damn' well better do yours." He gave me his quick grin once more. "But on second thought, if you need any help dealing with Elfenbein, don't hesitate to call on me, amigo. I'm here to protect L. A.'s interests; and if the little white-haired doctor is too tough for you, I'll be happy to give you a hand, for old times' sake."

  "Sure," I said. "For old tunes' sake."

  There was a brief silence. Paul Denison started to turn away, and looked back. "It's a funny thing," he said, "when I heard you'd got away, I was glad, believe it or not."

  I didn't say anything. After a moment he turned and walked away. I gave him a few seconds' start, and moved after him, coming around the piles of crates in time to see him climb into a fancy, silvery Mercedes, between ten and twenty grands' worth of car—it's hard to keep track of all the current prices. I watched him drive out of sight. It was too bad, I reflected. I'd brought that guy up right. I'd taught him the ropes; but after all the years as Kotko's errand boy he seemed to have forgotten his basic indoctrination, talking like a movie character with a bad script— about whether or not I hated him, for God's sake, as if my personal feelings would make any difference to what happened between us now!