The Terminators (11 page)

"Hank Priest?" I said.

"Yes, that is where I first met Hank," Mac said. "We've kept in touch ever since."

Something stirred in my mind, and I said, "Those boys all had code names, didn't they?"

"He operated under the name Sigmund. Why? Does it mean something to you?"

I frowned through the glass of the booth at the pretty blond typist across the room. Fortunately, engrossed in her work, she didn't notice, so her feelings weren't hurt.

"It means something," I said. "I'd hate to try to say what, right now."

"It meant something to the Norwegians at the time," Mac said. "If Sigmund should ever return to Norway, he would not have to look far for help in whatever he wanted to do. He was a hero to those people; he still is. And don't forget, men who have once tasted of that kind of secret and violent life often don't need much of an excuse to revert to it, no matter how peaceful and profitable—and dull —their current existence may be."

I said slowly, "If he's got that kind of Resistance-assistance ready to pop out of the fjords and fjells, what does Sigmund want with me?"

"Most of his former Norwegian associates are rough farmers and fishermen, local people. He said he needed someone who could play the part of an American tourist; someone trained in current techniques, with enough of a reputation in modem undercover circles to discourage interference,"

"Well, despite his vast wartime experience, Mr. Sigmund seems to have overestimated what a reputation can do," I said wryly. "We've got interference coming out our ears over here. But never mind that, sir. Tell me, how many people know this about Priest? Would Denison know it, for instance?"

"Paul Denison is just a little too young to have taken an active part in World War II. He could therefore hardly have picked up the story in the line of duty and it was never written up afterwards. If he checks the files—well, as far as the Navy was concerned, Hank was simply on detached duty connected with intelligence, details unspecified. All other records were destroyed to protect the people involved. I would say there's hardly any chance of Denison, or any other investigator, stumbling across the information at the American or British end. As far as Norway is concerned, if Hank wasn't betrayed back when there was a large price on his head, it's unlikely that anybody would reveal his identity now. Those who loved him wouldn't betray him and those who didn't—there were a few; one makes enemies in a job like that—wouldn't dare risk the wrath of his friends, even now. I would say Hank has nothing to fear from the Norwegians."

"Yes, sir," I said. "The big question is, what have they to fear from him?"

After a brief pause, Mac said, "Perhaps you had better explain what you have in mind."

"You know damned well what I have in mind, sir," I said. "If I add up all the information I've received so far, I come to the logical conclusion that the Skipper, as he likes to be called around here, is deliberately making use of his tough old Norwegian comrades—patriots all, or they wouldn't have risked their lives against the Nazis—to steal Norwegian oil."

Mac said carefully, "When you put it like that, it does sound a bit implausible, doesn't it, Eric?"

"Implausible," I said. "Yes, sir. Logical it may be, but it never was a very convincing story. With what you've told me, it becomes damned near incredible. I have a strange hunch there are things I'm not being told. Any comments, sir?"

He didn't speak at once. I sat there and listened to the hum of the electrons bridging the several thousand miles between us. When his voice came again, it sounded formal and remote: "Actually, the true nature of Captain Priest's enterprise, and its success or failure, is no concern of this department, Eric."

I whistled soundlessly through my teeth, recognizing the symptoms. Washington is the city of doubletalk and my chief is its unrecognized champion. I mean, when he doesn't want to say something, he can find more different ways of not saying it than any man I ever met. I was beginning to think that he was setting some real records in this case.

"That sounds real great, sir," I said sourly. "Just what the hell does it mean?"

"It means that we are obliged to contribute only what we were asked to contribute: your presence and your reputation, Eric. No further assistance was requested, so we have no obligation beyond this. At least you have none, as far as Henry Priest is concerned. There is, of course, another desirable objective you should keep in mind, but we've already discussed that."

"Yes, sir," I said, reflecting that it would have been nice if he'd drawn these fine lines for me a couple of days ago. I didn't say that, however. "Spell it out, sir," I said. "I seem to be a little slow today."

His voice was deliberate and emotionless: "As I said, your official duties in connection with Hank Priest are limited to those described. Unofficially, I am making a request that you are at liberty to disregard if you so choose, or if circumstances so dictate. I have known Hank Priest for a long time. He has been a good friend. It is possible that he does not realize that this is not wartime—at least not the war he knew—and that Sigmund is out of date. Regardless of what help he may find elsewhere, I would like you to take care of him to the best of your ability."

IX.

AFTER paying the nice Norwegian lady at the counter for my lengthy call to Oslo, and winking at the pretty blond girl at the typewriter who'd restored my faith in lovely Scandinavian womanhood, I left the telephone office. Outside, the sun was shining brightly for a change —well, as brightly as it ever shines that far north at that time of the year. The little town looked clean and pretty but while the houses were colorful and picturesque by American standards, they didn't seem very old by the standards of Europe, where a dwelling erected in the days of Columbus is considered barely broken in. Of course, this could be a new section of town but I remembered that the Nazis were supposed to have systematically destroyed a large number of communities along the Norwegian coast when they pulled out in 1945, necessitating complete rebuilding. . ..

"This way, please."

The man had fallen into step with me as I moved along the busy sidewalk. He was a red-faced, white-haired, wiry little gent with a rolling, seaman's gait. I had a hunch I'd seen him before outside a Bergen restaurant. His dark suit

was shabby and his dark work-shirt was frayed but he was wearing a tie. They all wear neckties over there when they come to town, at least the older ones do. It's a mark of respectability. His gnarled hands were in plain sight.

"Sure," I said. "Lead on."

We walked side by side down the main street, made a turn, and stopped in front of a restaurant in the middle of the block. It looked like a reasonably high-class place for the size of the town.

"He waits inside," said my guide.

"Thanks."

Entering, I could tell at once I wasn't in a U.S. eatery, because there was an old man drinking his after-lunch beer near the door, slipping leftovers from his plate to his black-and-white spotted dog curled up under the table. I thought it looked kind of cozy and homelike. I hesitated. An elderly waitress looked around and jerked her head towards a door at the end of the room. I marched to it, and through it, closing it behind me. I found myself in a small meeting or banquet room. Hank Priest, alone at the end of the big table, looked up from a plate containing a couple of large sausages and some other stuff, and waved me to a chair beside him.

"Hungry?" he asked as I sat down.

I hesitated. "Well, I'm going to have to feed Diana when I get back on board ship," I said. "The poor girl's sitting in that cabin with a .38 Special in her hand, slowly starving to death."

"She'll keep; she's a patient young lady. I have some things for you to take to her: hair dye and clothes. Meanwhile, have a little 
p0lse
 —sausage to you."

"Yes, sir," I said.

He grinned. "Oh, that's right, you're a goddamned transplanted Swede, aren't you, son, just like I'm a transplanted Norwegian. I don't have to tell you about p0lse''

"Actually, the Swedes call it 
korv
." I said.

"What did Denison have to say when you talked with him on the dock?"

His voice was casual, but his eyes had narrowed slightly, watching me. I didn't know whether he expected me to act guilty about chatting with Denison, or just startled that he knew about it.

"He said he was here to protect L. A.'s interests," I said. "We peasants call him Mr. Kotko, but Denison is a privileged employee of long standing, and has permission to use the great man's initials. It makes him happy all over, like a great big, bouncing puppy."

"You know Denison? My man said you greeted each other like old friends. Or old enemies?"

"I know Denison. His code name used to be Luke, when he worked for us."

"Arthur didn't tell me that."

Arthur was Arthur Borden, the man I generally refer to as Mac. His true identity is known only to a few. Priest, as a long-time friend, was one of the few.

"There are some things you probably didn't tell him. Skipper," I said. "There are a lot of things nobody told me."

"Well, if you've got business with Denison, don't let it interfere with your work for me, son."

"No, sir."

The aging waitress I'd encountered outside came in with a plate of sausages and a mug of beer, although I'd seen no signal passed. Maybe everybody got sausages and beer today. After she'd departed, I took a bite. They were very superior sausages, way out of the hot dog class.

"You'll be happy to know the boy you put the fear of God into got into his little sports car and drove straight out of town," Priest said. "You won't have any more trouble with him. From what you were overheard to say to him, I gather you had some trouble with his partner last night."

I regarded him grimly—Sigmund, the legendary underground hero brought back to life for reasons yet to be determined. I should have known, of course. If I'd been sharp, I'd have spotted him a couple of years ago when we'd just met, but I'd had other things on my mind at the time. I'd overlooked it then, and having got into the habit, I'd overlooked it last night. If I'd sensed anything at all, I'd attributed it to the Navy background. At a casual glance he was still the pleasant, stocky, crisply gray-haired, retired military gent whose liquor I'd drunk in Florida, with his deeply tanned face and the humorous, squinty little wrinkles around his faded blue eyes; but looking more closely I saw what I'd missed before.

A lot of those uniformed, career characters are mere pushbutton, remote-control killers. They keep their hands clean and don't really know what death is all about. To them, it's a technical, scientific exercise in velocities and trajectories. That is, of course, particularly true of the Navy, where the big guns do the dirty work beyond the horizon and the spotter planes radio back the score— come to think of it, I guess the big guns are pretty much. obsolete, but the operating principles remain the same. Naval warfare is seldom if ever a gunwale-to-gunwale, pistol-and-cutlass business nowadays. I wouldn't be surprised if there are naval officers around responsible for hundreds of deaths in action, in one war or another, who have never come within a mile of a live enemy, or a dead one.

But this wasn't one of them. This was a man, I was realizing belatedly, who'd seen death at close range, who'd administered it with his own hands, coldly and efficiently, maybe even smiling a little with those pale Norse eyes. I remembered Mac's description of his wartime way of working: ingenious, effective, and totally ruthless. I drew a long breath, and reminded myself not to be so damned hasty about sizing up situations, and people, in the future. I'd already made a couple of bad mistakes here.

"Oh, that big, blond guy?" I said to Priest. "He had trouble. I had no trouble."

It was a little gaudy. Hell, let's be honest, it was Tarzan pounding his chest and making with the victory cry of the Great Apes. I guess I was trying to make some kind of an impression on the older man facing me, who'd once rated pretty high in something approximating my own line of endeavor. Or maybe I was just trying to correct an impression already made.

I couldn't help realizing, of course, that he must have had a good laugh watching me doing my best, like a dutiful seeing-eye dog, to show the blind and bumbling old seafaring gent through the dark, unfamiliar mazes of shoreside intrigue. Unfamiliar, hell! He'd been there before me; he knew the way as well as I did—at least he'd known it once, and once is all it takes. Well, I'd asked for it. I'd been a little too eager to play the cynical pro dealing with naive amateurs, without bothering to check just how naive they really were. I saw an amused gleam in the sea-faded blue eyes.

"Very well, Matt," Priest said. "By now you must have been told I once spent quite a bit of time along this coast. I still have contacts here—well, you've seen some of my old associates hanging around. If you should need help, local help, don't hesitate to ask."

It was a good thing, I reflected sourly, that I had no designs on the throne of Norway. With the amount of assistance I'd had offered me on this job, I could have taken Oslo without firing a shot.

"Yes, sir," I said. "But the only help I really need at the moment, sir, is whatever is required to let me understand how you can get all these nice Norwegian citizens to help you rob their country of its precious natural resources." He watched me, still smiling a little, but his eyes had narrowed again. He didn't speak and I went on: "Or could it be, sir, that you're telling your Norska troops one thing, and your Amerikanska forces something else?"

He grinned abruptly. "It's the old underground razzle-dazzle, son," he said cheerfully. "You tell your eager young resistance fighters, full of piss and patriotism, what they want to hear. You certainly don't ever tell them the truth. Hell, they might panic if they knew the truth. Or get sick to their delicate little guts. Or they might even spill it to somebody who shouldn't know. You never can trust an idealist with the truth, Mr. Helm, you ought to know that. Truth is the one thing he just can't stand."