The Removers (2 page)

The recognition room shares the basement of the building with a fancy filing system that was discarded by the FBI or somebody when IBM or somebody sold them a still fancier one. Although technically obsolete, it’s good enough for us. We don’t have to keep tabs on all the criminals in the world, or even all the spies and secret agents. We just concentrate on the people in our own line of business, and there aren’t too many of those. It’s an exacting and unrewarding profession, by most standards.

I heard Mac repeat his stock inspirational lecture on the subject last fall before I went overseas. At the time, taking a refresher course of training to make up for my fifteen-year layoff, I was a member of a class of seven bright young things, male and female, all terribly eager to see the top man in the flesh for the first time, and three hard-bitten retreads like myself, all trying to keep from yawning. We’d seen him.

“It’s a war of sorts, ladies and gentlemen,” Mac had said, standing before us, “and you can consider yourselves soldiers of sorts, but I’d rather you wouldn’t. Don’t make up any pretty mental pictures. If you were working for a criminal organization, you’d be known as enforcers. Since you’re working for a sovereign nation, you can call yourselves... well, removers is a very good word. It describes the job with reasonable accuracy...”

* * *

I went through the current files carefully, refreshing my memory about my fellow-removers in the services of other countries—the ones known to be operating in the United States, particularly. There were people in the service of friendly nations, who were to be treated with consideration if possible. Of course, it wasn’t always possible. There were the small fry of the opposing team, who were merely to be reported if seen. Finally, there were the other side’s big guns, as far as we had them spotted. There were Dickman, Holz, Rosloff, Martell, and a deadly female we knew only as Vadya, all with the highest priority. Of these, only one had been reported in the country recently. I frowned and went back through the cards.

“Martell,” I said. “I thought he’d dropped out of sight after that Berlin business. Give him to me on the projector please, Smitty.”

Smitty limped to the rear of the room and turned on the machine. He limped because he didn’t have much in the way of feet. They had been operated on drastically by some gentlemen in search of information. Various other parts of Smitty were also missing, and there were scars that didn’t make him very pleasant to look at.

Mac had given him this job upon his discharge from the hospital, since he was obviously no longer fit for field duty. Don’t think for a moment it was just a generous gesture towards a disabled employee. We all had to check with the recognition room before we went out on assignment; we all had to see Smitty therefore, before every job. It was an antidote for optimism and overconfidence, since it was well known that Smitty had been as good as any of us, in his time. He’d just been a little careless, once.

The picture came on the screen. Projecting it didn’t help much. If a picture is lousy to start with, blowing it up doesn’t improve it—something the TV manufacturers don’t seem to have discovered yet. This was just a fuzzy telephoto shot of a man getting out of a car, taken at extreme range by a hidden photographer who should have used a heavier tripod to hold his equipment steady. The printing on the card came through nice and clear, however.

Martell,
I read,
Vladimir. 5’ 11”, 190 lbs., black hair, wide forehead, heavy eyebrows, brown eyes, straight nose, thick lips, strong chin. Fingerprints as Martell not on record, but see below. Expert pistol, poor rifle, adequate knife and unarmed combat. Not known to drink excessively. Not known to use drugs. No known homosexual tendencies. Officially reprimanded 47 and 50 for attentions to women leading to neglect of duty. Responsible death Agent Francis in Berlin Sep 51. Unreported until Feb 60 when seen in Miami Beach acting as bodyguard for Dominic Rizzi, using name Jack Fenn. Found to have established, under this name, authentic criminal record dating back to 53 (see reverse for details and fingerprints). Purpose of cover unknown. Current mission unknown. Present whereabouts unknown. Priority One.

* * *

So they’d found him and lost him; somebody would have caught hell for that. I frowned at the figure on the screen. One of the short-range lads; he didn’t like a rifle. A ladies’ man; and he must be damn good at his work to still be in business with two counts of that against him. His employers weren’t noted for leniency towards agents who goofed off after women.

“Who’s Rizzi?” I asked.

“His line was dope, mainly,” Smitty said, behind me. “He’s in jail now. He was caught in the Appalachian roundup of syndicate big-shots.”

“That would put Mr. Martell out of a job,” I said. “Well, he shouldn’t have much trouble finding himself a new position. He’s spent seven or eight years building himself a cover as torpedo for the syndicate, judging by what it says here.” I grimaced at the fuzzy image on the screen. “He’s well qualified, you’ve got to hand him that. Those gangsters will never hire a better-trained hatchet man. Let’s hope they appreciate him. I just wonder what the hell he’s up to, playing hoodlum.”

“So does the man upstairs,” Smitty said. “He’s been wearing out that photo, looking at it for inspiration.”

“Anything else?” I asked. “No other pix?”

“No, but there’s an unconfirmed report on the master card, here, to the effect that Martell was seen in Reno recently, carrying a gun for a racketeer named Fredericks. The report is being investigated, it says here.”

I made a wry face at the screen. That was why Mac had a green kid in Nevada, then, and was asking me to back him up. It would be one of those annoying deals where you’re on standby duty simply because you happen to be around. You haven’t got anything specific to do, but you can be damn sure that just about the time you’re about to turn out the light and go to bed with the girl, the phone will start ringing.

Not that I had a girl in mind—or if I did, she was married to another man, and if I knew her, she’d be taking her marriage vows very seriously. She’d always been a very serious girl.

West of Reno, they have some quite respectable mountains, as the early emigrants discovered to their dismay, including some folks named Donner, who couldn’t manage to beat the snow across, and spent the winter in camp eating each other. There’s a monument to them up towards the pass that bears their name. Well, maybe they earned it, but it does seem a little unfair to the better-organized outfits who made it on a regular diet and so missed the opportunity to get their names carved in stone or cast in bronze—I forget the exact material used.

I’d been up that way years before, but this time I swung down along the foothills after leaving the motel. It was close to three in the afternoon when I reached the metropolis of Middle Fork, which consisted of a general store with a gas pump out front. They supplied me with soda pop and directions, said I couldn’t possibly miss it; and I proceeded back into the hills.

The little road wound upwards with the usual assortment of bumps, ruts, and unreliable-looking bridges. It forked here and there. Sometimes there were signs pointing to various places, including the ranch I was looking for, but sometimes I had to toss a coin to make the choice. I didn’t mind. Washington was far away, with the gray-haired man behind the desk, and the recognition room full of pictures of unpleasant people it was my duty to do something about if I should happen to bump into them.

The old pickup truck was running well, and it was nice, wild, clean country; and if I got lost I’d just heat a can of beans over the gasoline stove I carried, and crawl into my sleeping bag in the rear, under the weatherproof metal canopy, and find my way in the morning.

I came upon the gate quite abruptly. It was a kind of rustic arch composed of two massive uprights and a long cross timber that sagged slightly in the middle as they always do after they’ve been up some time. The Double-L brand had been carved into the timber, and in case you were too dumb to figure it out, it was spelled out for you, too:
DOUBLE-L RANCH
. On one of the uprights was a small, weather-beaten metal sign:
Guests.

I turned in. The road wasn’t bad, now, in dry weather, but I could imagine it would be a real experience in winter, impassable at times. Coming around a bend, I found myself on an open shoulder of the mountain with a view that merited a photograph—I’d brought a camera along to get some shots of the kids. I got out, and climbed up the hill to snap the picture. I shoved the camera into my hip pocket as I started back down. They’ve got a new model now that’ll feed the baby, walk the dog, and even take pretty good photographs, but somehow, the notion of a miniature camera as a portable pocket instrument seems to have got lost along the way. I still like the little old Leica you can carry in your pants.

When I reached the road, the first thing I saw was the horse. It was standing docilely, reins loose and trailing, just an ordinary brown horse with an ordinary stock saddle. It did carry a scabbard for a carbine, not unusual for a ranch. I had time to note that the scabbard was empty. Then the owner of the horse came around the rear of the truck with a Winchester .30-30 in his hands and aimed it at me.

“Put your hands up!” he said.

He was a compact young fellow, I saw, in his early twenties, dressed about like I was in jeans, boots, a work shirt, and a big hat. It’s the costume of the country, and I’d changed into it at the motel, not wanting to come to a family reunion looking too much like a dude. Besides, a boot-top makes a handy place to carry a revolver if you don’t like holsters—and after all, Beth
had
called for help. I also had a knife.

“Stop right there!” the kid snapped as I continued walking towards him. He waved the gun-barrel at me. “I told you to put ’em up.”

He was talking too much. He wasn’t going to shoot. I could see it in his eyes. I was almost close enough to take the gun away and spank him with it. I don’t like fool kids who wave those things in my face.

“Peter!” somebody called from up the slope. “Pete, where...? Oh, there you are!” There was a little pause, and then, “Why, it’s Matt!”

I recognized the voice. It wasn’t surprising. I’d lived with it for better than a dozen years, once—pretty good years, at that.

“What in heaven’s name...? Pete, what are you doing with that gun?”

There was the sound of a horse coming down the hillside. I put my hands into my pockets deliberately. The boy let the gun-barrel drop. We both turned stiffly to watch Beth approach, letting her horse pick its way in the stilt-legged way they have of going downhill.

She was wearing a light, immaculate, wide-brimmed Stetson with a braided leather cord, a white silk shirt open at the throat, and the kind of high-class, tailored denim pants—I won’t insult them by calling them jeans—that are constructed by somebody aware that men and women are shaped differently in the rear. She’d never gone in for sloppy clothes much, I recalled, not even for doing the housework or digging in the garden. She was only a few years younger than I, never mind the exact figure, and she’d had three kids—my kids—but she looked like a slender girl on the back of the big horse.

I stepped forward to hold the animal as she reached us. She looked down at me from the saddle.

“Well, Matt,” she murmured. “It seems like a long time, doesn’t it?”

“You look like a movie cowgirl in that hat,” I said. I jerked my head towards the kid with the carbine. “What’s the reception committee for?”

She hesitated, and laughed quickly. “Let me introduce you. Peter Logan, my stepson. Mr. Matthew Helm.” I waited, and she said, “Oh... why, we’ve been having trouble with rustlers, of all things! They’ll drive in with a pickup or panel truck and butcher one of our steers and be off with the meat before anybody sees them. When Peter and I saw your truck from up above, we thought it best to investigate. I didn’t tell you to use a gun, Pete!” she said to the boy.

Peter Logan said quickly, “Dad said not to take any chances.”

She said, “Well, if you’ll lead my horse home, I’ll drive back with Mr. Helm...” About to dismount, she changed her mind. A gleam of mischief came into her eyes, and she gave me a glance, and spoke to Peter: “On second thought, suppose you lend Mr. Helm your horse. We’ll cut back over the ridge and meet the boys while you bring his truck to the ranch.”

Young Logan frowned. “Dad said for me not to let you ride anywhere alone.”

“But I won’t be alone,” Beth said, laughing. “I’m sure Mr. Helm will take very good care of me.”

I said, “Stick that carbine back in the scabbard, and I’ll do my best to protect her from rustlers and outlaws.”

The boy gave me a look that indicated he didn’t think I was very funny. Then he turned on his heel, strode to the horse, rammed the Winchester into place, and came back leading the animal.

“We generally get on from the left, sir,” he said, straight-faced. “It’s just a local custom, but the horses are used to it.”

“Sure,” I said. “That’s a four-speed shift in my truck. Reverse, in case you should need it, is to the left and back. Think you can manage?”

We looked at each other coldly. I was born in Minnesota, but I came west to horse country at an early age. He’d probably been driving old Chevy trucks before he was old enough to smoke.

“I’ll manage,” he said.

He turned and walked quickly to the pickup, kicked the starter, released the brake, and took off, throwing gravel from the rear wheels. I looked my new transportation over, and gave it a tentative pat on the nose. It didn’t shy away or try to take my arm off, so I figured it was safe to climb aboard, and did so.

The stirrups were too short, and I’d forgotten about the Leica in my hip pocket, which didn’t help me fit the saddle comfortably. Beth waited until I was mounted, wheeled her horse, and sent it up the hill with a rush. I gave my beast a couple of kicks and got it into motion, but she had to wait for me at the top.

“There’s the ranch,” she said, pointing.