The Terminators (24 page)

"Where did you see them?" he snapped.

"In Florida, a couple of years ago," I said. "Let me give you the background, Mr. Kotko. Living overseas, you may not be aware of it, but in America we nowadays have a fine organization known as the Environmental Protection

Agency, or EPA, dedicated to keeping our air and water pure, a very worthy purpose. Only sometimes, like all ecological bureaucrats, these folks get carried away by their own virtue—particularly when they find some nice, easy, obvious subjects for purification that aren't big enough or rich enough to fight back very hard. Well, in the U.S., we also have a relatively small number of private boats sizable enough to be lived on for longer or shorter periods, a few hundred thousand I'm told, certainly less than half a million. They produce only a fraction of a percent of the total water pollution in even the most crowded areas; but for some reason the EPA considers this little bit of contamination peculiarly offensive—"

"Get to the point. Helm!"

"I'm getting there," I said. "The EPA in its wisdom has decided that the human waste from a few hundred thousand private vessels is a clear and present danger to life upon this earth and must on no account be deposited in the ocean. Cities of millions discharge their effluents into the world's waters; great industries dump deadly poisons practically where they please; giant whales, porpoises, and fishes large and small use the seas for their bathrooms in a totally disgusting manner; but the yacht owner. . . . This isn't my diatribe, Mr. Kotko. I'm just repeating what I was told two years back, as well as I remember it"

"And?"

"The EPA is—or was at that time—busy considering elaborate, not to say impossible, standards for marine plumbing on small private vessels," I said. "What you've got here, Mr. Kotko, is an imaginative and artistic version of a nonpolluting head built to slightly—but only slightly —exaggerated EPA specifications." I kept my voice expressionless. "In other words, Mr. Kotko, there's your Sigmund Siphon. A seagoing crapper."

There was an odd silence in the room. I guess everybody expected the man to explode. Even the girls were motionless, blond Misty freezing with a stained Kleenex in her hand. But I guess you don't get to be, and stay, a millionaire just by shaving your head and beating up little girls. Kotko was perfectly still for a moment, looking down at the drawing. When he spoke, his voice was steady and very soft.

"You say you saw the plans from which this was derived? In Florida?"

"Yes, sir. There were, you see, three systems being considered for a thirty-foot fishing vessel belonging to a gent of my acquaintance. He was kind of upset about having to tear up his beloved boat to install a lot of Mickey Mouse plumbing, and he held forth to anybody who happened to be handy; and I was handy for a week or so. He described the three possibilities in very colorful terms. One involved chemical treatment, the second used a combustion process, and the third employed a holding tank, meaning that you had to live with your stinking waste products until you could find an official pump-out station on shore —that was the system being pushed by the EPA. Just what you were supposed to do on a cruise in an area where there were no official facilities, or if you merely stayed off shore for more than a few days, had never been clearly explained, said my informant."

"Who?" Kotko's voice was still low, but kind of strangled.

"It's a very nice job," I said. "He got a clever draftsman to combine all three systems into one, you see. The EPA should be very pleased: first you treat it chemically, then you bum it, then you flush the ashes into the holding tank for respectful burial ashore. Foolproof; not one little pollutant can escape. Here's the seat, see, kind of an odd perspective, but when you turn it this way you can recognize—"

"Damn you, 
who?
"

"You know the answer," I said. "Unfortunately, I spoiled his great moment, Mr. Kotko. He went to a lot of trouble to deliver it to you himself and watch your face as he explained it to you."

He yanked me away from the table, and swung me around to face him. It was just as well. I don't like people who maul me and, having certain plans for him, I wanted to keep right on not liking him. He was making it easy.

"You mean your lousy little retired Navy captain played this crazy joke—"

"Wake up, Mr. Kotko," I said. "He isn't so lousy and he isn't so little. If your boy here had done his homework you'd know that." I said it without looking at Denison and I went on before he could speak: "And you played a joke on Hank Priest once, Mr. Kotko. He's just paying you back in kind."

"
I
 played. . . ?" He snorted. "I've never met the man!"

"Not in person," I said. "But some years ago you gave him, by proxy so to speak, a pretty little plastic card saying PETROX on it. You told him that if he presented that card at any of your installations, he could get all kinds of nice petroleum products for it. Well, the joke was on him. A very funny thing happened a little while back, Mr. Kotko. Hank Priest took your little card to his local marine Petrox station, or dock, and haha, what do you know? It was as worthless as that nautical pisspot he's just presented to you, which won't produce any oil, either."

Kotko looked genuinely shocked. "You mean, this lunatic is holding 
me
 responsible—"

"You're dealing with a Navy man, Mr. Kotko," I said. "In the Navy, the man on top gets all the credit when things go right. And all the blame when things go wrong. You're the man on top. Things went wrong. The way he looks at it, it's your baby."

"The Arabs—"

I shrugged. "Don't argue with 
me
, Mr. Kotko. I'm not the guy who's mad at you." That was not, of course, strictly true; but it wasn't a moment for slavish adherence to the truth.

He was still shocked and baffled. "But he had the U.S. government behind him!"

"The U.S. government is a hell of a big place," I said. "Hank Priest knows his way around Washington. He undoubtedly knew where to find the right, unprincipled officials who'd give him a little cautious backing for an illegal project if he showed them how they could make a profit out of the deal. There are a few unscrupulous people around that town, or hadn't you heard? Of course, he just wanted their support to make the deal look attractive to you, figuring, I suppose, that you wouldn't examine the details quite so closely if it was all stamped U.S. Approved."

"All this—" Kotko cleared his throat. "All this elaborate trickery and intrigue just to play a bad joke? I don't believe it!"

"Oh, not just to play a bad joke," I said. "That was only an added frill I guess he couldn't resist. He had to sell you 
something
, it was necessary to his plan, and why not make it funny? But that's incidental."

"Then what—"

"You see, Mr. Kotko," I said deliberately, "a lady named Frances Priest drowned when her husband couldn't go after her in his boat because one of your stations had capriciously refused to sell him enough fuel." I glanced at my watch. "I expect he'll be here pretty soon, depending on what kind of transportation he's managed from Svolvaer. What all this elaborate trickery is about, Mr. Kotko, is to decoy you here to Norway where you don't usually come, prepared to receive visitors although you usually don't. Well, a visitor. Now he's going to kill you."

I'd thought, with all the chatter, I'd built it up pretty well. I'd thought it would be a real blockbuster, and it did silence the room for a moment. Then Denison laughed. He turned and walked quickly to the stairs.

"Wes, Bill," he shouted. "Everything okay down there?"

"Everything's quiet, Mr. Denison," came the reply, in the voice of the taller man, Wesley.

"Well, keep your eyes open." Denison marched back. "They're good boys, Mr. Kotko. Nobody'll get past them."

It was my turn to laugh. "Luke, friend, like I just told your boss here, you haven't done your homework. Do you know who's out there? He didn't want to do it this way, I figure, he wanted to trick his way in neatly and do the job without a lot of shooting, but if he's got to blast his way in here, he'll blast, and he's got the force to do it." I went on before Denison could speak: "You told me you checked on Captain Henry Priest. What did you find out?"

His eyes wavered. "Well, just the usual things. He seems to be pretty respectable, a solid citizen."

"No trouble? Everybody chatty, willing to spill everything they know about Captain Priest?" He'd already told me the answer, but I wanted Kotko to hear it.

"Well, as a matter of fact, here in Norway they kind of clammed up, but—"

"Sigmund," I said. "The Sigmund Siphon. Did it occur to you to trace the name?''

"Sure, but—" He stopped.

Kotko said harshly, "But what, Denison?"

"Same thing, Mr. Kotko. Nobody'd talk to me about that name."

Kotko looked at me. "What are you driving at, Helm?"

"I figure they must have had you spotted since you moved in," I said. "They're local people, and a stranger like you renting a house like this isn't going to be a secret, locally. They're just waiting for the word. And when they come for you, your boy Denison and a couple of bodyguards aren't going to stop them, Mr. Kotko. Hell, at one time they took on the whole German Army; they'll eat up your protection like chocolate candy."

Denison said impatiently, "There's nobody out there, or the boys would have seen them. Who's this mysterious they we're supposed to be so afraid of, anyway?"

I ignored him and spoke to Kotko. "I've got one last story for you, Mr. Kotko," I said. "Another World War II story. About a certain lieutenant in the U.S. Navy, of Norwegian extraction, who was sent over here, code name Sigmund, to help out the Norwegian resistance. He did a pretty good job, according to some people. Other folks thought he was just a little too tricky, just a little too ruthless, just a little too bloodthirsty. . . . You ought to pass the word down the line, Mr. Kotko. Next time your employees get snotty, I suggest they pick on someone who hasn't got quite so many violent friends in distant places, quite so many dead men to his credit. When you meet a guy like that, and you hurt him, he kills. Now, if we can't come up with a bright idea fast, you're going to die for five gallons of Diesel #2."

Kotko stared at me for a moment; then he turned on his heel. "Gerald!"

"Yes, Mr. Kotko." The voice came up the stairs.

"Get the helicopter warmed up, Jerry. We're getting out of here."

Denison said desperately, "He's bluffing, Mr. Kotko. He's trying to scare us—"

"Shut up. Or think of a good explanation for landing me in the middle of an Arctic hornet's nest. It had better be damned good, or you're through!"

I interrupted. "Mr. Kotko."

"What is it?"

"I'd stop that man, if I were you. He seems like a nice, competent sort, even if his vocabulary is kind of limited. And that's an expensive aircraft."

Kotko's eyes were narrow. "What do you mean—"

He stopped. Gerald, the pilot, must have slipped out without slamming the door. Now we heard the helicopter's powerplant sputter into life outside. Instantly, as if answering the sound of the exhaust, an automatic weapon opened up down the valley. Another, closer, joined it. There was a moment of silence after they had stopped, followed by the solid, jolting clap of a heavier explosion: a grenade. We could see the flickering red light of the burning machine growing strong at the window as the fire took hold, even though the wreckage itself was out of our field of view.

Sigmund had arrived.

XXII.

IT took us a little while to work it out between us, Denison and I, while the tall flames gradually subsided, and nothing moved in the piney woods flanking the valley in which the cows still stood around in the mist and falling snow looking wet and unhappy.

Then Denison went off to make the arrangements. Presently the two girls came through the room, heading for the garage stairs at the far end of the house. Greta Elfenbein stopped to look at me. Her jaunty raincoat and sou'wester concealed most of the damage but she was still kind of pink around the eyes and nose. Her expression reminded me of her father's, after I'd put my knife through his hand. There had been a moment when we'd almost been friends, Greta and I, and she'd used my hanky, but now she hated me. I hadn't behaved like a gentleman. I'd let the nasty man muss her up and bloody her nose without uttering a sound of protest. I hadn't hurled myself heroically to her rescue and got myself shot or clubbed, and she'd never forgive me. The girl called Misty urged her forward, and she turned away without speaking.

Denison returned, a little breathless. "Well, keep your fingers crossed," he said. "They're warming up the Mercedes. Here are the hat and coat you wanted. L. A. doesn't like leaving them with you. He thinks they make him look rugged and virile, like a Cossack or something."

"He's got a choice," I said. "He can leave his life here instead, if he prefers. Remember, now, don't go too far before you dump the blonde, if she still insists on playing the female lead in our little drama. Thirty yards should do it. Then take off straight down the road and don't look left or right, understand? If there's anything there, you don't want to see it. And once you get to Narvik—what did you say, ten kilometers?—get him out of this country. Sweden, Iceland, Scotland, England. Any damned place but Norway. Okay?" I paused, and spoke carefully, "Oh, and don't forget to try to get hold of Elfenbein and make that trade, will you? I'd keep the daughter here and deal with him myself, but there's a bigger chance of something going wrong at this end."

"I'll do what I can for your lady colleague," Denison said. He hesitated and grimaced. "Well, you did it, you bastard. You pulled out the rug. The way L. A. feels about me right now for letting him get into this mess, you could shoot me dead and he wouldn't lift a finger to avenge me."

I grinned. "And I might just do it, too, if I didn't need you to get that girl out of Elfenbein's hands, if she's still alive. And to keep those stumblebums of yours in line. For God's sake don't let them shoot anybody, Paul. Just drive; never mind the heroics. The only one he really wants is Kotko, but one little shot and you'll probably be cut to pieces by the undisciplined, trigger-happy troops. I'm betting those woods are full of rusty firepower stuffed with ammunition so ancient it's turned green, but some of it still shoots pretty good. If you don't beUeve me, look at that chopper.... Paul."