"You don't think killing a man is important?"
He was deliberately misinterpreting my words, but I said patiently, "I think killing a man is important. But I assumed the job was more important. Most jobs I'm given are. At least that's the theory on which we operate, rightly or wrongly. And if I'm going to kill a man, I don't think it matters a good goddamn, either to me or to him, which way he's facing when it happens. This is not a sport with me, Junior. I'm not supposed to fight fair, win or lose. I'm not sent out to lose. I don't lose. At least I haven't yet."
"That's where you're mistaken!" Junior said in the same sharp voice. "You've lost this time. At least you've lost your job. We don't want the responsibility of sponsoring a cold-blooded killer."
"I see," I said. "Do I gather this job isn't really important after all? Or is it that the welfare of the world, or the U.S.A., can go hang, just so you people keep your reputations as fair-minded ladies and gentlemen with clean, bloodless hands?"
He said, "Never mind the rationalizations, Helm. Just give me the collar."
I nodded, surprising him. I said, "Okay, I'll give you the collar, since you're here. And you'll give it back this afternoon, exactly the way we planned." I looked at him hard. "Make any changes you care to, but don't even think about not returning it in good shape, Junior. Because if you give me any trouble at all, I just won't bother to give you a look at the rest of the stuff I pick up along the route. And there are three pickups left, remember?"
He licked his lips. "I told you! The orders from Washington are that you're to have nothing more to do with the operation!"
"Did Washington tell you how to stop me? Of course, you can shoot me. I mean, if you ever find your gun again. Otherwise, there isn't much you can do about it, is there?"
"You mean… you mean you're going right ahead and-"
"That's right," I said. "And if you boys behave yourselves, I'll let you play your little juggling tricks with any material I get, just the way we had it worked out in San Francisco. But if I get any more static from you, I'll just go it alone. You can blame yourself if the stuff gets delivered in Anchorage unaltered."
"You… you'd turn over the information intact? You'd betray your country's secrets…"
"You know how to prevent it from happening. All you have to do is carry through just the way we planned."
He frowned at me suspiciously. In a perverse way, I was happy to see that he was at least smart enough to spot the logical fallacy behind my position. I'd hate to think the next generation of agents is going to grow up totally brainless.
"But why?" he asked. "What reason have you for wanting to go on independently? You said you had other work to do. We're releasing you from this operation; why don't you just go back and do it?"
I said, "Oh. Now you're releasing me. A minute ago it sounded very much like you were kicking me out for behavior unbecoming an officer and a gentleman." He flushed and didn't answer. While I had the advantage, I went on quickly, "I make a habit of finishing my missions, Junior. I wouldn't want to get in the habit of copping out every time the going got tough, even when it's my own people who make it tough. It's a psychological thing. You can always find some excuse for quitting a job if you look hard enough. I just don't want to get started looking."
This was nonsense, of course, but it was, I hoped, the kind of inspirational psychological hogwash he was used to hearing. Anyway, it silenced him, and saved me from having to tell him that I was actually sticking with the crummy, cockeyed little job assigned me by his Mr. Smith only because it happened to be part of a much more important mission assigned me by somebody else. To keep him from asking any more embarrassing questions, I reached into my pocket.
"Here's Hank's collar," I said. "Where's the temporary replacement?"
Junior hesitated; then he brought out a second collar, identical to the one I was holding except that it was just a little blacker, shinier, and new-looking. We made the trade.
"I… I'll have to confer with Washington," he said.
"You do that," I said. "But at four o'clock this afternoon, I'll be at the field at the edge of town specified in the original instructions. I'll heave a training dummy out into the brush in the place I was told, the place somebody's supposed to be hiding. I'll send the dog after it, with this phony collar on him. And if he doesn't come back wearing the right one, the one you're holding now, with the contents looking just as they should, that's the last contact I'll make with you people. Tell Mr. Washington Smith I said so." I stood up. "Okay, you go find your gun while I call in the pup. You'd better ride back here again. I'll tap the horn when it's safe for you to unload. Where do you want me to let you off?"
"My partner is waiting in the lab truck. It's parked just around the corner from the transportation building or whatever they call ~
After dumping him in the proper area, I drove down to the waterfront, cooked and ate a rudimentary lunch, and slept until three-thirty. Then I went through the contact routine as specified. I could only guess at Mr. Smith's reaction to my ultimatum-he didn't look like a man who'd approve of backtalk from the hired help-but the collar I got was the right one with the right stuff in it. At least it looked right to me, and would to anyone who didn't examine it too closely, which was all that mattered.
I had dinner at a motel restaurant, fed the pup, and caught up on some more sleep, parking out by the ferry terminal this time, a mile or so out of town. Well before dawn, cars started lining up at the entrance to the boarding area. I got dressed and drove over, putting my rig in line behind a Volkswagen bus loaded with kids and camping gear. Then I went in back and cooked some breakfast, sticking my head out frequently to see what progress was being made. I could have saved myself the trouble. The ferry was three hours late, delayed by fog up the coast.
After it arrived it had to unload, so the morning was more than half gone before we were permitted aboard, first doing the customs-and-immigration bit once more since the next stop was U.S. territory. Because I was riding almost to the end of the line, I was shunted to the farthest depths of the car deck, a cavernous space that looked very much like the flight deck of a small aircraft carrier roofed over, except that the island was in the center of the ship rather than at the side.
It was a tricky piece of driving-they were packing us in like sardines-and I had no opportunity to study the cars around me until I finally got the truck parked to the satisfaction of a man in a nautical cap who undoubtedly did jigsaw puzzles in his spare time. He left me barely room enough to open the left-hand cab door and the door to the camper. The right-hand door to the cab, he said, I wouldn't be needing anyway.
I'd wiggled out into the tiny space between the truck and the car alongside and had started making my way toward a marked stairway when I saw a yellow Cadillac convertible with a dark-haired woman at the wheel being guided into a slot three cars back.
18
THE MOTOR VESSEL MATANUSKA was a good-sized ship. Above the car deck was a deck of staterooms for those who wanted privacy on the two-day voyage up the coast and were willing to pay for it. The purser seemed to be doing a good business in accommodations; however, I got the impression that most of the passengers were planning to divide their time between their cars below, and the numerous upholstered chairs and airplane-type seats up above.