The Frighteners (40 page)

“So it is you,
gringo
,” she whispered.

I said, “Nobody asked you to pull any goddamn sacrifice plays, you dumb little
indio
. Who the hell do you think you are, Joan of Arc?”

She brought her hand out from under the
serape
and touched her chest. “Bullet here from
pistola
kill pretty soon, I think, but I make good shooting first, hey? You okay now?”

“Yes, I’m okay.”

Her big eyes watched me steadily. Then she gave me her big white grin. “Beeg liar, always.”

“All right, I’m a liar. I stopped one, but I’ll get over it, thanks to you. I. . .”

But the grin had faded and something in her face made me abort the sentence. She took my hand with cold fingers and held it tightly for a moment, fighting the pain.

At last she whispered, “Hey, we make pretty good tribe,
amigo
. Go warpath much good. I think I die now, okay?”

She did.

After a long time I released the lifeless hand I’d been holding and felt for the pockets in the coarse cloth of the
serape
. I left the high-heeled shoes but took the partly used box of high-powered .22s. I pushed myself up and turned to see Jo standing there. I noted that she had two boots on now. She was holding a third, and a long stick that had been freshly cut, maybe from a willow, although I couldn’t recall seeing any around. She was watching me gravely.

“I’m sorry, Matt.”

I said, “I apologize for being rude. In answer to your question, I believe that most Smith and Wesson handcuff keys fit most Smith and Wesson handcuffs. Maybe all do, I’m not an expert on the subject. But figure it out, when a cop comes in with half-a-dozen prisoners, does he want to spend time trying to remember which key unlocks which thug?”

Jo said, “One of the men made you a better cane than that stupid weapon you’re using. If you have to keep walking around when you should be lying down. And you’d better wear something on that foot, but let me clean and bandage it first.”

“Never mind all that,” I said. “Just hold the boot so I can get into it, if you don’t mind. . . . Thanks. Now I suggest you take a walk, Jo. Not far, just down around the bend of the road. I’ve got something left to do here, and I don’t think you want to see it. But give me that little automatic first, please.”

Jo licked her lips. “You already have Mr. Sigma’s gun, right there under your belt.”

I said, “She was in this from the start. I think it would please her if her pistol was used to finish it. Please stand in front of me while I load it; then get the hell out of here.”

I fed the tiny .22 cartridges into the diminutive magazine, which I inserted into the butt of the shiny .22 automatic. I pulled back the slide once and let it go forward, checking to make sure a round had fed into the chamber. I apologized to the little weapon. It still looked like a ballistic disaster, but it had worked for Antonia, it had worked for Jo, and somehow I was quite certain it was going to work for me.

“Okay, thanks,” I said.

Jo moved away without speaking. Looking up, I saw that Ramón had arrived. He was talking with Captain Aleman, near the little group of prisoners—there were five now; Sigma had joined his captured men. I took a couple of steps in that direction. The trouble with having a sore foot on one side and a bad hip on the other was that it was hard to know which leg to limp on. Ramón came to meet me.

I said, “Mondragon is dead. The weapons are in the Rincon de la Aguila, wherever that may be.”

“My Yaquis will know. You have done a good job. No one . . He glanced toward Captain Aleman, the Army representative. “No one will now question the release of the beautiful young
rubia
, supposedly your wife.”

I remembered that
rubia
was the word for blonde. I had trouble remembering the blonde in question; my adventures with Gloria belonged to another lifetime.

I said, “I have a feeling she didn’t find her role as hostage too arduous.”

Ramón smiled pleasantly. “She is a very charming young lady. Shall we leave it at that?” He cleared his throat. “What do you want done with these?’’

We moved closer to the captives. I said, “We don’t want to give the local
zopilotes
indigestion. The one with the safari suit and the beat-up face is mine. With your permission, of course. I suggest you turn the others loose, you’ve got enough dead
gringos
on your hands already. But it’s only a suggestion.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

That was Sigma, moving forward anxiously. He was cradling the left hand with the broken finger like a sick baby. He was looking rather battered, but he was not as badly damaged as he would have been if he hadn’t managed to turn his head when I first slammed the gun at his face. As it was, he’d taken one blow on the left cheek, which was badly swollen, and the other on the left ear, which was tom, spilling considerable blood down the side of his Great White Hunter outfit with its empty holster. Well, I was in even worse shape, shot and burned, in the grimy remnants of the second white Buff Cody suit I’d gone through, so I felt no great sympathy for his condition.

Ignoring Sigma, Ramón spoke to Captain Aleman. “Those four
gringos
. Be so good as to procure for them an operational vehicle and tell them that they have twelve hours to disappear. If they are found in this country at ...” He glanced at his watch. “. . . at two o’clock tomorrow morning, they will be shot.”

“As you wish, señor.”

The surly Army bastard obviously disapproved; he would have liked to execute everybody in sight, probably including me.

“Now you,” Ramón said, turning to Sigma. “I understand those four—all these Americans—were under your command. Let us first establish who you are, señor, and what your business is here in Mexico. ”

“My name . . ." Sigma hesitated. “My name is Warren Harding Somerset, and I work for the United States government. I advise you to release me immediately!”

I drew a long breath. The name was in the open at last. As the mission developed, Mac’s instructions had seemed, at first, slightly incredible, but they’d been quite clear to anyone used to deciphering his doubletalk. I’d been told to find and dispose of a certain Señor Sabádo and if this brought me into conflict with Mr. Warren Somerset it was just too damn bad. There was no other way in which I could interpret those orders. I didn’t even want to. After all, some effort should be made to keep the accounts balanced, and the man had done his best to kill me, and Antonia was dead.

Looking at him, I thought of the middle name he’d revealed, and wondered who’d choose to name a baby boy after President Harding, not the greatest Chief Executive ever to inhabit the White House.

Ramón glanced at me. “Do you confirm this man’s identity, Señor Helm?”

I had the shape of the operation clearly in mind now, and I said, “Hell, no! And if you check with Washington, I’m sure you’ll find they never heard of him. Maybe they've got a Somerset somewhere, it would be surprising if they didn’t, they’ve got several Helms, too, but this man’s name is Sabádo.”

“Helm, damn you . . .!”

One of Ramón’s men had moved up behind the prisoner. He silenced the outburst with a strong poke from the barrel of his assault rifle.

Ramón looked grave. “We have heard of a Señor Sabádo. He has caused my government much trouble. You are sure this is the man?”

I shrugged. “His men called him Mr. Saturday. He was also

going by the code name Sigma, perhaps to conceal his real identity.”

‘‘Helm, you’re mad!’’ Somerset protested, moving up to confront me. “What are you trying to do to me? You know who I am, we met in El Paso when I. . ."

He stopped, perhaps realizing that reminding me how he’d set me up for murder wasn’t likely to help him out of his predicament.

I said, “I can’t recall ever meeting you or anybody named Somerset, friend. Ramón, we can settle this very easily. Among the wounded is a revolutionary named Hernando with a bullet in the leg, one of Mondragon’s men. Bring him in and let him have a look at this man. Ask him if this is the man they knew as Sabádo.”

Ramón said judiciously, “Of course, we do not need this evidence to convict him. Anyone who enters my country with machine guns and associates with terrorists can expect to make the acquaintance of our prisons, assuming that we are merciful enough to let him live. However, this elusive Sabádo has been a problem long enough; I shall be glad to have it solved.” He glanced at Lieutenant Barraga. “Find me the man named Hernando, please.”

The little lieutenant saluted smartly and marched off. I stood watching him absently; then Somerset made his move. He took a quick step forward and snatched the heavy pistol from my belt, using his intact right hand.

“Everything's gone wrong since I met you!” he gasped. “At least I’ll take you with me, Helm!”

My big worry was the guard. Standing there behind Somerset, if he cut loose with a lot of 5.56mm stuff some of it would be bound to achieve full penetration and hit me. I was relieved to see him moving aside for a safer angle. Somerset was wrestling with the Browning’s hammer, which I’d let down in order to carry the weapon in the front of my pants without risking castration. As a southpaw, even though it was his own gun, and presumably familiar, he was having a hard time getting it cocked

right-handed. Maybe in his outfit, unlike ours, they didn’t practice with the weak hand.

I waited until, having got the job done, he started to raise the weapon. Then, remembering the Kevlar he was wearing, I shot him three times in the face with the little .22 hidden in my hand.

I woke up in a familiar bed in a familiar room with a familiar feminine face looking down at me. Even though there was a small, round Band-Aid on one cheek that hadn’t been there before, and oh the back of the hand with which she wielded the thermometer, I found myself wondering for a moment if I hadn’t just had a simple concussion nightmare, right here in the Schonfeld’s beach house in Kino Bay. Perhaps I’d never driven away from this town with a girl named Antonia or met a man named Arturo or shot a man called Sabádo. Perhaps the girl named Antonia was still alive back in Hermosillo. . . . But I knew she wasn’t.

I licked my lips. “How the hell did I get back here?” I whispered. I had some confused memories, but it was easier to ask than to sort them out.

“Oh, you’re with us again,” Jo said. “We seem to play this scene over and over, darling.”

“Still darling?” I asked.

“Just a figure of speech,” she said. “I call all my patients darling. Darlings Number One, Two, Three, etc. You were operated on in a clinic in Guaymas, but it was thought best to hide you here for your convalescence. Too many dead and wounded Americanos could cause comment, in spite of your friend Ramón’s political influence, which seems to be considerable. He’ll be in to see you as soon as he gets all the loose ends tied up tightly. He said to tell you the arms have been found and properly disposed of. He said you might be interested in the fact that the rifles were HK-19s in the 7.62 NATO caliber used by the Mexican Army. I hope I got that right. He said to thank you for a job well done.”

“He’s welcome, but not very.”

“How do you feel? Up to seeing an important visitor?”

“How important?”

“He says he’s your boss. I don’t envy him the job.”

“Save your pity for the people he bosses.”

“I’ll send him in.”

Then Mac was standing over me. He looked tall from the bed, although he wasn’t really a tall man by my six-plus standard. Same gray suit and black eyebrows. Same cold gray eyes.

“You did well, Eric,” he said. “Employing the young lady’s pistol was a particularly nice touch. No self-respecting U.S. agent would dream of performing an official termination, to use that tired euphemism, with such a cheap and unreliable little weapon. Obviously Señor Sabádo was the victim of his dangerous revolutionary associates—well, obviously after our friend Solana-Ruiz rearranged a few facts and swore a few people to secrecy. As for Mr. Warren Harding Somerset, he is on vacation at present, and I am afraid there will be terrible news for his friends shortly. Airplane travel is not as safe as it should be. Something really must be done about it. But I do commend you on executing your mission in a very satisfactory manner.’’

I was tired of all the fulsome damn praise. Keep the troops happy, ha! Why didn’t some of these executive bastards do their own damn dirty work?

I said, “Actually, that crummy-looking little automatic fired whenever it was asked to and didn’t blow anybody’s hand off. And there’s a great deal to be said for using English language, sir. One of these days my ESP is going to malfunction and we’ll both screw up badly.”

Mac smiled indulgently. It’s something I tell him after every job, and all I ever get is that tolerant smile.

“Really, Eric!” he said. “In your wildest dreams, can you see the head of one agency of the U.S. Government boldly ordering one of his operatives to terminate—there it is again!—the chief of another? Allow me a few polite circumlocutions, please.

It was not a good situation. The man was powerful and dangerous, with influential friends in Washington, and the Latin American situation was very tense; he could not be allowed to damage our relations with this great neighbor of ours to the south. We could not even afford to have it made public, as he would have been sure to do if he’d been brought to trial, that this wild plan of his had once existed, even to the extent of having substantial sums allocated to it, with Washington approval. Besides, he was simply killing too many people in an effort to cover his tracks. He had to be stopped; and I was sure you would understand, as you did, that if he died as Señor Sabádo down here in Mexico, we could easily deal with a missing Mr. Somerset up in the U.S. I find it ironical that this is close to the same removal technique he planned to employ with you and Mr. Cody.” Mac paused. “As far as drugs are concerned, I can tell you that certain delicate negotiations have resulted in much improved cooperation from the present Mexican authorities.” He looked down at me for a moment. “You’re entitled to the usual convalescent leave, of course. When you feel fit enough, please report to the Ranch for evaluation and rehabilitation.”