The Frighteners (2 page)

I grimaced. So it was another piggyback job. Whenever he starts talking interdepartmental cooperation, you can bet there’s some little unimportant errand he wants you to run under cover of the other agency’s mission. Like dealing with a gent named Sabádo who seemed to have made enemies on both sides of the border: We wanted him, and the Mexicans would apparently be glad to let us have him. Dead.

I said, “There’s only one catch, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m almost bound to hear the name before the week is up if I’m there that long. Sabádo means Saturday in Spanish.”

Mac frowned. “Indeed? It is not one of my languages, unfortunately. . . . Eric.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Forbearance is not a virtue. Any accomplices of Se
ñ
or Sabádo qualify for the same treatment. Oh, and you should be very careful. Don’t take anything for granted. Things aren’t necessarily what they seem.”

They don’t build Cadillacs the generous way they used to; at least, the honeymoon heap was somewhat less than a block long. However, it was still a fairly sizeable vehicle, a sporty convertible called Allante. At the moment it wasn’t at a Cadillac’s dignified and silent best, since it was well-sprinkled with rice and dragging behind it a bunch of rattling tin cans.

We hadn’t witnessed the ceremony or attended the subsequent champagne reception catered by the chapel management in the hall they maintained for the purpose across the street. We’d been lying in wait a couple of blocks away along the route the happy couple would take afterwards, we hoped. Mr. Somerset had determined that Buff Cody had reserved, for his wedding night, the honeymoon suite of El Presidente Hotel in Juarez, Mexico, just across the border from El Paso. There were only so many ways he could drive to get to the appropriate international bridge across the Rio Grande, and this was apparently the most likely.

The clattering white Cadillac attracted some amused attention when it appeared on schedule. Cars slowed to let their occupants look at it, and grinning pedestrians watched it turn into the grocery store parking lot where we waited. Safeway. Mr. Somerset, sitting beside me in the rear of the inconspicuous gray four-door sedan, from which he was masterminding the operation, cleared his throat in a satisfied way.

“Yes, it seems I guessed correctly. I thought he’d turn in here to get rid of the rice and junk, the first convenient area, safer than doing it at the curb on a busy street even if he could find a parking space. There was no risk; as I told you, we have him covered. If he’d passed us up here, or taken another route, we’d have caught up with him and followed until he did stop. Or, if necessary, forced him to the curb; but I wanted to avoid that if possible. Mr. Cody may have become somewhat civilized in his wealthy old age, but he spent his lean younger years in some fairly rugged places. He’s been known to carry a gun. It’s unlikely he’d wear it to his wedding, but he could have put it in the car, and he might be hasty about using it.”

I’d been waiting for an opening like that. I spoke deliberately: “A man after my own heart, it seems, sir. If you’re going to use a gun at all, hasty is the only way. Waiting for the other guy to shoot first is for the birds. He might not miss.”

Mr. Somerset said, rather stiffly, “That may be the attitude in your organization, Helm; but unlike you we are basically a law-enforcement agency, and our people are trained to wait until a real threat develops before employing deadly force.”

I said, “How do you employ deadly force after somebody’s shot you dead?”

He said irritably, “I don’t know how we got on this irrelevant subject.”

“Hardly irrelevant, sir,” I said. “If I’m to work with you and your people, we’d better establish a few ground rules. As far as I’m concerned, a threat is a threat. I don’t wait around to see whether it’s ‘real’ or ‘unreal’ before I react; in fact, I don’t understand what you mean by the distinction. Menace is menace, and I don’t ever gamble my life on the chance that the guy may be bluffing or kidding. That’s one reason I’m still here. Which means that on this job, if your boys approach me for any reason, they’d damned well better do it carefully, and empty-handed except for identification. Tell them that they do not jump out of the bushes at me and say boo, and they most particularly do not wave any weapons at me. I consider the muzzle of a firearm pointed my way to be a very unfriendly object, no matter what sweet things the mouth of the guy behind it is saying. I won’t stop to listen; I’ll just shoot the stupid bastard loose from his piece. Please pass the word, sir.”

It was a little exaggerated, of course, a little flamboyant, and it was meant to be. While it wasn’t the most diplomatic way of embarking on my latest career of interdepartmental cooperation, I didn’t want any misunderstandings. The world is full of people who can hardly ask the time of day without brandishing a .357 Magnum. If he had any of those on his payroll and lost one, he couldn’t claim I hadn’t warned him. However, I had another reason for behaving objectionably: I wanted to see if he’d take it.

He started to get mad, of course. He was the head of an important government agency. He didn’t like being given arrogant instructions by a mere field man like me. Furthermore, he obviously wanted to protest against my calm assumption that if I got into a shootout with one of his fine, supertrained operatives, I’d just naturally be the one to survive.

Nevertheless, he swallowed hard, and said, “Yes, we don’t want any unfortunate accidents, you are quite right. I will advise my people of the difference in operating philosophies.”

Okay. He needed me. Well, we’d already known that; I seemed to be the only reasonably competent person immediately available who could impersonate Horace Hosmer Cody for him. But what we hadn’t known was how badly he needed me, badly enough to swallow his pride and accept the rude directive I’d given him—or at least pretend to accept it. I’d sensed it from the moment he entered the hotel room and greeted me in the overcordial fashion that people employ when meeting a member of a minority race they really think is pretty far down the evolutionary scale under circumstances in which they can’t afford to show it because the guy is going to make them lots of money somehow. Mr. Somerset had stopped just inside the door to admire my disguise.

“Excellent!” he’d said. “Oh, that is very good! A very close resemblance indeed!” Coming forward, he held out his hand cordially. “You’re Helm?”

‘‘Yes, sir.” I’d winked at Mac with my off eye to remind him that this wasn’t the reaction he’d predicted. “Matthew Helm, sir,” I said to Somerset.

I returned his handshake without too much muscle. Senior officers, even senior civilian officers, love to be sirred and hate to have their hands crushed. I don’t mind being tactful when it doesn’t hurt.

Seeing that things were under control, Mac moved to the door, saying, “Well, there he is, Warren. I’ll leave the briefing to you. I have a plane to catch.”

Alone with Mr. Somerset, I took a moment to study my temporary commander-in-chief. He was a rather handsome man with a smoothly rounded face and very white teeth. Of medium height, he obviously worked hard at keeping himself tanned and trim and hated the fact that he was nevertheless a little thicker in the tummy than he used to be: not fat, not even chubby, just moderately well-upholstered and trying to conceal it. Brown hair, carefully blow-dried, probably helped out by a hairpiece although, if there was one, it was good enough that I couldn’t be sure. A dark red suit—jacket and pants only, no vest—of some synthetic material that had a little gleam to it and a pink sports shirt worn with the tails out. And a stubble of beard.

It’s the current fashion among the bright young people, I understand. The Happy Hobo look. Young women are supposed to look as if they’d slept in their clothes and forgotten to wash or comb their hair; young men are only in style if they appear to be recovering from a three-day drunk, still too shaky to consider using a razor, even an electric razor. But why this fairly senior bureaucratic character would fall for the gag baffled me for a moment; then I understood. He was worshipping at the altar of eternal youth. He was hoping that his thick hair, real or otherwise, his tanned face, his well-controlled middle, his sharp threads, and his fashionable chin shadow would fool people into thinking he was still one of the kids, still hip, even though he was well into his fifties.

The idea of being under the orders of a character who spent his time worrying about losing a couple of pounds, or saving what was left of his hair, or just looking youthful, wasn’t encouraging since it meant he couldn’t be too bright. Why brood about the years when you really can’t do much about them? Nobody looks forward to senility, and I guess there were some nice things about being a kid, like the resilient muscles and snappy reflexes that went with the territory; but there are things to be said for being an adult, too. . . . Then I saw that the brown eyes watching me, estimating my reactions, were cold and clever. Mr. Warren Somerset knew exactly what I was thinking. He knew exactly the impression he was making because he’d worked very hard for it; and if I wanted to think him a youth-seeking fool, that was the point of the exercise. It would make it that much easier for him to put one over on me, if the occasion should arise—and maybe the occasion was right here, right now.

‘‘I think we have time for a drink and a quick council of war,’’ he said, with a glance at the gold watch on his left wrist that was the approximate diameter and thickness of a fifty-cent piece. “I see that your chief has left us the essentials. What’s your pleasure?” He lifted a hand quickly. “Never mind. I’ve read your file, at least a carefully edited version designed for out-of-house people like me. I see no martini ingredients, so it’s Scotch, I believe.”

“Right, sir.”

I took the glass he presented me. He was showing off, of course, demonstrating how well he’d researched this operation even down to my taste in liquor. I noted that his tipple was Perrier water. Well, maybe it was another of the youthful attitudes he was copying, or pretending to copy—these days a lot of the younger ones have the Demon Rum syndrome as badly as Carrie Nation—but maybe, on the other hand, it was one of the executive tricks they like to play to see if the underlings can be conned into drinking on duty, and if so, how much. To hell with him. I hadn’t asked for employment; he’d asked for an employee. If he didn’t like my personal habits he could find himself another Horace Hosmer Cody. Anyway, alcohol is a food, and it was the first nourishment I’d been offered since daybreak—hell, since supper the night before; I’d been interrupted in the process of catching my breakfast. I partook of the Scotch gratefully. Mr. Somerset waved me to a chair and pulled another around so he could sit down facing me.

“You must have been doing some guessing,” he said.

“I never guess, sir,” I said. “Why waste the effort of trying to anticipate what somebody’s bound to tell me? Anyway, I haven’t had much time for guessing. A few hours ago I was trying to interest a pan-sized trout in a small gold spinner. I’ve been on the move ever since.” He waited as if he hadn’t heard me. I shrugged and said, “Okay, I gather it’s Mexico. But it isn’t drugs.”

He glanced at me sharply. “What makes you say that?”

“Because my chief wouldn’t play if it were drugs. He says that boys and girls simply aren’t gaining on it, they can’t stop it any more than their predecessors could stop booze during Prohibition, and he won’t risk any of his operatives in a lost cause even if it’s a worthy lost cause.”

Mr. Somerset laughed shortly. “Well, his attitude is practical if hardly idealistic.”

He’d slipped just a little; a hint of anger had come through. They do get fanatical about it and deep down, apparently, he was one of the fanatics, although he was trying hard not to show it. Well, it’s a serious problem all right, but I always wonder at people who wouldn’t hand over a quarter to save a beggar from starvation—Mr. Somerset didn’t look like a generous man to me—but are perfectly willing to spend millions to save him from sticking a needle into his arm.

I said, “If idealism is what you want, you’ve come to the wrong shop, sir.” I took a slug of Scotch. It glowed warmly in my empty stomach. I went on as if I hadn’t spotted his betraying reaction. “So it isn’t drugs; and I doubt that the U.S. government would be sending me into Mexico to track down the lost treasure of the Aztecs or the missing gold of the Sierra Madre, although there are plenty of legends about both. And it seems unlikeiy that there’s a sudden official interest in Señoritas and margaritas. Which leaves, among the objectives usually sought below the border, only arms or politics. Or arms and politics. Although why a Texas millionaire would be involved with either, I couldn’t guess.”

Mr. Somerset nodded approvingly. “Very good, Helm. The answer to your question, if it was a question, is that our millionaire Mr. Cody will stop being a millionaire if he doesn’t do something drastic soon—drastic and profitable. The decline in oil prices caught him seriously overextended.”

“I see. So he’s looking for mucho dinero. How does he hope to get it?”

“It seems that he had a two-pronged strategy in mind. For his long-term requirement, matrimony apparently seemed the best solution to his difficulties. However, it takes time to get married and squeeze money out of a rich wife, one way or another, so while he was working on that he looked toward Mexico for, let’s say, a quick buck. I suppose I should say that his strategy was three-pronged, since he did try the usual method of obtaining instant wealth; but his attempt at drug smuggling failed and cost him part of his remaining funds. He escaped arrest, but the little adventure brought him to our attention, and he was wary enough not to try it again. His next effort . . . What do you know about the political situation in Mexico, Helm?”

I shrugged. “Not too much, I’m afraid.” He gave me that waiting silence again, so after a moment I continued: “Well, they’ve had the same political party in power for umpty-umpteen years, each president designating his successor. The Institutional Revolutionary Party, or PRI. There are elections, but they’re pretty much rubber-stamp affairs, or were until recently, when the PRI was challenged by parties both left and right and barely made it. There seems to be a lot of dissatisfaction. The Mexican economy is a shambles, and the peso was a couple of thousand to the dollar and climbing last I heard. If things don’t improve, there could be some kind of a popular revolt, not necessarily at the ballot box. The old Winchester .30-30 used to be the primary instrument of political change down there; most of Mexico’s history since the time of Spanish rule has come out of a gun barrel. A man with a nice lot of, say, modem M-16s for sale complete with ammo, not to mention heavier stuff . . . Well, the major opposition parties seem to be a little too stuffy and respectable for revolution, but there are other protest groups, and I shouldn’t think it would be hard to find a bunch of hotheads willing to use the arms. Finding a bunch of hotheads capable of paying for them would be harder, of course; and if this should be the way Cody hopes to bail himself out until his new wife’s money becomes available, he’d want a cash deal. A big cash deal.”