The Annihilators (3 page)

“Sorry,” I said. “Yes, sir. Don’t hang up. Hold the line.” I looked at Dolores Anaya, whose beautiful dark eyes were watching me steadily. It was too bad. You hate to see them waste themselves, the young ones. She was a pretty thing; she could have become a lovely thing; but she’d never make it now. Not unless she had more sense than I thought. I said, “My chief says the name you gave me is unavailable.”

“It is too bad, señor. Then the señorita must die.”

I made the expected, reasonable, useless noises: “What’s the point? It won’t get your dictator killed.” I could see that this made absolutely no impression on her—she was locked into her predetermined course of action—and I went on: “And it could get some people killed you’d rather keep living.”

She bristled fiercely. “Are you threatening me, señor?”

“Don’t be corny,” I said. “Of course I’m threatening you. But let’s try something else first. Will you let me talk with your daddy?”

She looked startled; then she frowned suspiciously. “Who has told you? I did not give you my full name.”

I said. “Hell, I once spent several days in the jungle with Col. Hector Jimenez. I got to know him pretty well; do you think I don’t know a daughter of his when I see her?” This wasn’t quite true, of course. I hadn’t realized who Dolores Anaya must be until I asked myself why Costa Verde had popped into my head like that; then I’d looked again and seen the unmistakable resemblance. I said, “Your male parent was a sensible man when I saw him last. He wouldn’t pull a fool stunt like this; and even if he did let somebody talk him into it, he wouldn’t persist with it after it had gone sour. Get him on the phone and let me talk some sense into him.”

Dolores Anaya, whose family name was Jimenez—they weight down babies with great long strings of names down there—shook her pretty dark head. “It will do no good, señor. You are wrong, the idea was altogether my father’s. He has always remembered the very expert and professional manner in which you dealt with the bandit
El Fuerte.
He said we must have you now, since others have failed. Two others, one of whom was”—she hesitated—“was my older brother Ricardo. My father said it was too bad, and he regretted the necessity for coercion, but the people of Costa Verde must be saved from the butcher Rael regardless of cost. Their freedom is more important than the respect and friendship he feels for you, and perhaps you for him.”

Well, it made sense. It’s the old Savior-Of-Your-Country syndrome. And of course no conspirator, particularly no Latin-American conspirator, would ever dream of simply picking up the phone and asking me if I’d shoot somebody for him, please. It has to be done complicated, with kidnaping and intimidation, or it doesn’t count.

There was, of course, another consideration that the girl hadn’t mentioned, either because she hadn’t been taken wholly into her father’s confidence or because they’d agreed not to call it to my attention, since it might influence my decision unfavorably. It seemed very unlikely that if they did obtain the services of an agent of the U.S. Government against Rael, by whatever means, they’d keep it a secret from Rael, even if it made the job harder.

Mac had already hinted that the present dictator of Costa Verde was a sensitive person—read: paranoid bastard—who’d blow his stack at any suggestion of treachery on the part of his gringo allies. Even if I should fail, the fact that I had tried could be used to sow a great deal of discord between Rael and his Americano supporters, to Jimenez’s advantage.

I said, “Aren’t you forgetting something? Isn’t your daddy forgetting something?”

“What, señor?”

“He may have Eleanor Brand, but I have you.”

The girl tossed her head haughtily and gave a scornful little laugh that an aristocratic lady of revolutionary France might have, used when threatened with the guillotine. “So kill me now!” She made a sharp gesture. “I claimed the right to speak with you. I was not good for managing the abduction, that was work for the men, but I could do this. I could speak just as convincingly for my father as my brother Emilio, who calls himself Lobo. And the fact that I would put myself into your hands, and that my father would allow it, should prove to you how seriously we take this matter. So if you wish to kill me, kill. It will do your lady no good, I assure you. There will certainly be no trade, if that is what you are thinking. I would take my own life, first.”

She was very impressive, so young and so dedicated; but they are always slightly incredible in their arrogance, these baby martyrs. They are so ready to sacrifice themselves for their beliefs, but it never occurs to them that they may not be unique; that there may be other folks around ready for sacrifice, too.

“Sure,” I said. “It was just a thought.”

Dolores Jimenez glanced at her watch. “There is a time limit. If I am not back soon…”

It was time to play the last card, even though I had no faith in it, dealing with youthful fanatics like this one. “All right, listen closely… Sir,” I said into the phone.

Mac’s voice said, “Yes, Matt?”

“The classification on Jimenez?”

“Available. I thought you might need to know, so I also asked that question. Although of course they do not condone violence over there in the halls of diplomacy—at least not publicly—nevertheless if violence should occur, I gather they would not be displeased to have it occur to Colonel Jimenez. Well, at least as long as the act cannot in any way be attributed to the present regime. There are softhearted elements of the administration, not to mention of the liberal press, who disapprove of our support of Armando Rael and would use any terrorist act of his in this country to discredit this policy and those who favor it. But if it can be accomplished discreetly, they will not be unhappy. The colonel’s repeated loud condemnation of their man, Rael, and his constant efforts to return to power, are becoming very annoying to certain of our policy makers.”

“I see,” I said, and looked at the girl as I spoke. “The colonel is available. Very good. Then I request a complete cover on the whole Jimenez menage. In particular I want to know when Hector himself gets up in the morning and when he goes to bed at night. I want to know when he sleeps with his wife and if they both have satisfactory orgasms…”

Mac broke in: “Señora Jimenez died about a year after escaping from Costa Verde, perhaps due to the hardships she suffered getting out of there. As far as the rest of the family is concerned, the older son Ricardo was captured while making an attempt on Rael’s life and disappeared into the political prison known as La Fortaleza. It is believed that he died there, not pleasantly. There is a younger son Emilio and a daughter Dolores.”

“I have just had the pleasure of meeting Dolores,” I said. “I have even spoken with Emilio, unfortunately under rather unfavorable circumstances. But that’s beside the point. I want to know when the colonel goes to the can in the morning and whether his bowel movement is soft or hard. I particularly want to know his whereabouts at any hour of the day or night. And of course his security arrangements.”

“We have a lot of that information, or we can obtain it,” Mac said. “As I indicated, his political activities have aroused some unfavorable interest. Surveillance will be arranged.”

“Around-the-clock surveillance, excellent,” I said for Dolores’s benefit. “Next item: Please send somebody to my Washington apartment with the spare key they keep down in the office. At the back of the bedroom closet is a long plastic case containing a .300. Holland and Holland Magnum rifle with a heavy target barrel and a twenty-power telescopic sight. You may remember the gun. I’d appreciate it if you’d have it delivered to the armorer. Ask him to check it out carefully. It’s been sitting idle for several years.”

“Yes, I remember the rifle quite well,” Mac said.

I said, “Ask the armorer, when he’s overhauled it, to make me up a hundred rounds of fresh ammunition. His records will show the load we worked up for the gun—the hundred-eighty-grain bullet. The particular bullet we used isn’t manufactured any longer, so unless he still has a stock of them, he’ll have to find another with the same expansion characteristics. Remind him that I do not want an armor-plated grizzly-bear bullet that won’t open up on lighter game. The primary target will be a not-very-big human male at extreme range, where the bullet will have lost a great deal of its velocity. I want a slug with a light jacket that’ll expand reliably under those conditions and tear a nice big lethal hole through the sonofabitch. There will be some other targets, but let’s set it up for this one. What with the current rules for interstate shipment of firearms, you’ll have to get the weapon to me by courier. I’ll call later and let you know where.”

“Very well. Anything else?”

“That’ll do it for now,” I said. “Thank you, sir. Matt out.”

I passed the instrument to the girl, who replaced it firmly in its cradle. There was a little silence; then she said, “Do you really think you can frighten us?”

“Not really,” I said. “Some people are too stupid to be scared. But tell your friends, tell your daddy, that unless Eleanor Brand is returned unharmed, I go hunting. Colonel Jimenez has seen me at work. Ask him if he really wants to be at the wrong end of the rifle that finished
El Fuerte
half a valley away. Tell him that if anything happens to my girl, he can just forget about saving the poor suffering people of Costa Verde. They’ll have to make it on their own because he won’t be around to help them. And neither will you, Miss Lioness, or your brother Mister Wolf, or your friend Mister Bear. Don’t start this thing going, señorita. You can stop it right here. Send back Eleanor Brand, unharmed, and we’ll just forget the whole thing. Hurt her and you’re dead.”

She looked at me for a moment with those lustrous brown Spanish eyes; and I saw that I had failed. She, a Costa Verde patriot, was not to be intimidated by a little secret-agent foolishness, some menacing ballistic jargon, and a few threats. I had hoped—well, just a little—that she might be bright enough to realize that the last thing their lousy revolution, or counterrevolution, needed was a vengeful sniper in attendance; but she was hypnotized by the pure bright image of Costa Verde freedom that now required a human sacrifice…

“Good night, Señor Helm,” she said politely, turning toward the door. “I regret that we could not come to an agreement. I regret it very much. And I think you will, too.”

I watched her go; I gave her a small lead; I went after her. If they had any sense at all, any technique at all, any caution at all, it was useless, but I couldn’t pass up the slightest chance of a break, even if it was no chance at all.

I made it down four flights of stairs in time to see her go out the front door of the building. I followed the slim figure in the plain black trousers and the elaborate white blouse at a suitable distance. There was a filling station on the corner, closed at this late hour. She stopped at the public telephone there that she’d probably used to call me earlier. I prayed, if you want to call it that, that she was not as impervious to reason as I’d thought, as proud and dedicated and intractable. Maybe she could accept failure. Maybe, standing there at the phone, she was now advising delay, reconsideration. Maybe there would at least be a consultation before anything was done. Maybe somebody sensible would prevail.

Waiting, I thought about one possible course of action I’d passed up: I could have tried to beat the location out of her while she was still within my reach. The fact that she was a girl and quite attractive had not, of course, figured in my decision on the subject: Hell, they ask for equal treatment these days. Who am I to deny it to them? But that kind of interrogation is a long, slow process and doesn’t always work with the patriots and fanatics. Well, anybody can be broken eventually, but sometimes it takes days, even weeks. And even if I’d learned where Elly was being held, the odds would have been very great against my getting her away unharmed…

Dolores Anaya Jimenez was hanging up the phone. I could tell nothing from her attitude, at the distance. She started walking again, in her crisp high-heeled way, and I followed; but when we came to a larger, better-lighted street and she flagged down a late-cruising taxi, I let her go. She probably knew I was behind her. It was my obvious move because it was my only move. She would lead me nowhere useful; and the word had now been passed, one way or the other.

I walked back to the apartment building. Their timing was very good; or maybe they’d been waiting for my appearance. I saw the big old sedan turn the corner ahead very fast and brake hard in front of the building. I saw the door open. Something fell out and rolled along the pavement. Then they were roaring past me, accelerating violently. There were two of them. The street lights caught them briefly: a heavy-faced, darkly moustached young man in front, with massive shoulders, driving: and in the rear, struggling to get the car door closed again after discharging his cargo, a smaller, slighter young man, cleanshaven, whose features were quite familiar. I was getting so I could spot a Jimenez at a glance. Brother Emilio, and his friend the Bear. I suppose I could have shot at them, but what was the point? That would come, but there was no hurry now. There would be plenty of time for all that, later.

The doorman was hurrying out to look, drawn by the screech of rubber, but I was the first to reach her. You learn how to shut yourself off at times like that. You button up the emotional armor like a tank going into battle. But the defenses are never perfect; and I stood there thinking how small she looked, lying there. I thought of how it would have hurt her to know she’d be seen like that, with a shoe missing and her stockings torn by the fall and her dress dirty and disordered, darkly stained in front around the small tear under the breast where the knife had penetrated.

Elly’s face was very pale. Her eyes were open and unseeing. There was an ugly scrape along one cheek, but it had not bled significantly. They do not bleed much after the heart stops beating. I knew a sickening sense of loss and guilt. I reached down to tidy her dress a bit, but stopped. That was just me catering to my lousy conscience. The police wouldn’t like it; and it didn’t really, matter to her now…