The Terminators

I.

The weather in Bergen was just about what you'd expect at that time of year. Nobody visits Norway in the autumn for fun.

In summer, you go to see the fjords and the midnight sun. In winter, I guess you can go for snow and skiing if you're bored with more fashionable locations like, say, Switzerland. But in the fall, Scandinavia is usually a gray and miserable place; and when I reached Bergen it was raining hard and the streets were full of citizens in boots and slickers, indistinguishable as to sex. Apparently no Norwegian female under the age of fifty would be caught dead, nowadays, in a neat swingy skirt and sheer, sexy stockings. The current Nordic vogue seemed to involve enormous drab, baggy slacks kind of bunched up over yellow rubber boots, cowboy-fashion.

In Bergen, it didn't really matter. The place itself was pretty enough, or would be when they finished building it, or rebuilding it—at the moment, its most conspicuous feature was the giant construction cranes that stuck up all over the city like towering mechanical weeds in an otherwise pleasant garden. Nevertheless, it was a picturesque seaport surrounded by spectacular mountains; but the women didn't live up to the scenery. Even when I did manage to identify a member of the opposite sex of suitable age, she wasn't worth the trouble. I'd never seen such a bunch of plain Scandinavian females in my life.

I felt kind of cheated. Generally, if you're a man, you can count on a little interesting, blond, visual entertainment in that part of the world. Well, I hadn't come there for entertainment, visual or otherwise.

"Sorry, Eric," Mac had said over the phone, using my code name as always. "The climate probably won't appeal to you after Florida, but we owe these people a favor."

"And I'm it, sir?"

"I'm afraid so," he said. "They need an agent with a fairly lethal reputation, for some reason; and apparently they have none of their own. Unfortunately, you have made yourself rather well known, in some circles, as an expert in violence. Such publicity—any kind of publicity, for that matter—is generally a handicap in our kind of work, but it should operate in your favor here, since that kind of an image is just what these people seem to require."

"Not to criticize, sir," I said, "but it looks to me as if your friends are just shopping around for a human lightning rod. What do you want to bet I'll be left out in the open with my lethal reputation, as you so flatteringly put it, while the electricity fizzes all around me and they hide in the storm cellar watching the show?" I sighed. "Oh, well, I guess that's how we earn our government pay, taking the heat off characters with more scruples and less survival potential."

Waiting for his response, I looked towards the lovely, tanned, bikini-clad lady—named Loretta, if it matters— waiting under a palm tree near the phone booth. I shook my head ruefully to let her know that the news was just as bad as we'd expected it to be when I got the signal, never mind how, to call Washington at once. Nothing lasts forever, and we'd both known it wasn't a permanent arrangement, but saying goodbye wasn't going to be much fun. Heading towards the bleak and frozen north under orders, I was even, as Mac had suggested, going to regret saying goodbye to sunny Florida, although it's got too many people in it these days to qualify as my favorite state.

"As you say, Eric, that is the purpose of this organization," his voice said in my ear.

"Who are these refined operators who can't dredge up anybody scary enough from their own ranks?"

"That, I am told, is something you do not really need to know."

I made a face at the beautiful lady I'd be leaving soon. "The old need-to-know gag," I said grimly into the phone. "Jolly good, as our British colleagues would say. I'm supposed to die for these gentle jerks without even knowing who they are?"

"We hope it won't come to that, Eric. To make reasonably sure it doesn't, I'm arranging for you to have a little reliable support available along the way. This is strictly between the two of us, you understand. There are certain things the people with whom you'll be working do not need to know, either. In a minute, the girl downstairs will come on the line and tell you how to make contact. . . ."

I should have guessed. After all, I'd been involved in Mac's brand of interdepartmental cooperation before. As a matter of cold fact, I've never known him to do a friendly favor for another government outfit that didn't turn out, in the end, to have served some devious purpose of his own.

Years ago, I might have kidded myself that the fact that my superior was arranging for me to have expert help available on a mere loan job showed how much he treasured my services—maybe even my friendship—and how much he'd hate to lose them. Knowing him somewhat better now, I didn't figure it was very likely that he'd set up an elaborate support organization in distant Scandinavia just to protect the life of a single agent, no matter how valued and experienced. Obviously, we were sharpening two axes on a single grindstone, me; and as usual when I got involved in one of Mac's trickier operations,

I was going to have lots and lots of fun keeping the two edged tools apart.

The transatlantic crossing had been the standard airborne ratrace, Pan Am division. It used to be that a first-class plane ticket entitled you to a special waiting room, a special plane entrance, and special consideration. Now all you get for your—or the government's—several hundred extra bucks is a few inches more seat and a couple of free martinis. I also got the privilege of viewing a movie I didn't want to see. There were only five of us elite passengers up forward. Four wanted to sleep and the other wanted the movie, so we all saw the movie. That's called democracy.

After a brief stop in Glasgow, in the rain, we landed in Bergen, in the rain. The airport bus transported me to the Hotel Norge in the rain. I checked in and read a letter that had been awaiting me; and now, after a day's rest that had let me get slightly hardened to the change in climate and time zones, I was out in the cold northern rain again, looking for a restaurant called Tracteurstedet, a name I won't try to translate Because I don't know how. I used to speak a little Swedish, enough to make Norwegian, a closely related language, mildly comprehensible; but I hadn't been in Scandinavia for a good many years and my Nordic vocabulary seemed to have gathered considerable rust in the interval. On an important mission, I'd probably have been run through a refresher language-course as part of the routine preparation, but on an impromptu friendship deal like this it seemed that I'd just have to struggle along on what little I could remember.

The restaurant was down near the docks, in the area that, the guide book informed me, had housed the Hanseatic —that is, German—merchants who, in the old days, had played an important role in Bergen's commerce with the warmer, softer world to the south. They had specialized, I gathered, in dried fish. I found the colorful blocks of ancient wooden houses facing the harbor, all right; but the eating place eluded me. Apparently it wasn't visible from the street.

At last, spotting a cruising Bergen police car—a Volkswagen bus marked POLITI—I flagged it down and got some directions in halting English, enjoying every minute of it. I mean, when your profession is on the edge of the law, and sometimes even on the wrong side of it, you can generally get a childish charge out of boldly approaching the cops for help, like an ordinary, innocent citizen.

Following police instructions, I entered a narrow walkway between the old buildings and found myself in a maze of courts and lanes paved with elderly, splintery, wooden planks. There didn't seem to be anybody around. At last, far back in this dim rabbit-warren, I found a two-story building with illuminated windows and the right sign by the door. Inside, a few people were sitting on benches at heavy, rustic, wooden tables. I managed to convey to the gent behind the Bergen version of a snack bar that I desired a full dinner, and he directed me to a larger room upstairs where a disapproving waitress with no English whatever gradually made it clear to me that hard liquor wasn't legal here and it was naughty of me even to ask.

Well, I should have remembered that European martinis are not only unreliable, but difficult to come by. I should also have remembered that Scandinavia rivals Britain in the mad complexity of its liquor laws. I should have grabbed a couple of the duty-free bottles available at the Glasgow airport and, if I really required stimulation, I should have had a reviving snort at the hotel before embarking on this expedition. Now I was stuck with beer or wine. Choosing the former, I reread the communication I'd been handed when I arrived.

It was addressed to Mr. Matthew Helm, c/o Norge Hotel, Ole Bull's Plass, Bergen, Norway, please hold. Well, that figured. You wouldn't employ a character for his dangerous reputation and hide him under an alias. Writing to him, you'd put his real name conspicuously on the envelope so that, if the people you wanted to impress were on the ball, they'd read it and be suitably terrified. The fact that, after being informed of his fearsome identity, they might then take a few shots at him just for luck, wouldn't concern you greatly. After all, that's what dangerous characters are for, to be shot at, isn't it?

The letter was written in a feminine handwriting, in blue ink. Okay, so far. At least I wasn't going to have to cope with one of the green-ink girls—it's been my experience that when they feel compelled to dip their pens in outlandish colors, they tend to be kind of impossible in other ways as well. The letter read:

Darling:

I'm so happy you can get away from Washington at last. After all the delays, it's got a little late in the year for our cruise up the Norwegian coast, but that's all right. Now we'll probably have the ship to ourselves; and what's a little weather between friends? (We are friends, aren't we, whatever else we may be?)

I've made all the arrangements, as you asked, and your ticket is enclosed. We have separate cabins, but right next door, I hope you don't mind. They're very small cabins, I understand; and anyway, while I really don't care what people think, I don't see much point in either offending them or going through the motions of pretending to be man and wife. Do you?

Before the boat leaves, you might have dinner at a quaint little Bergen restaurant called Tracteurstedet near the docks, A friend tells me they have a beef dish that's out of this world, I thought the Norwegians couldn't cook anything but fish. If you get a chance, check and let me know.

As you can see by the enclosed schedule, we shove off at eleven p.m., but you can board any time after nine. It will be simpler if I just take a taxi direct from the airport and meet you on board, as I'm catching a late plane from Paris,

Please, please, don't let anything stop you this time,

Madeleine

I frowned at the thin, elegant sheets of paper, and the thin, elegant handwriting. Sometimes this kind of careful doubletalk is concocted, after endless conferences, by committees of experts: but I had a feeling this letter had been composed as well as written by a real, flesh-and-blood woman; a woman I was soon to meet, who wasn't really looking forward to meeting me.

It was right there in front of me. She'd put in all the essential, official stuff: the warning that something or somebody might try to stop me, the order to pay a visit to this restaurant before sailing time, and the necessary travel information. She'd also, however, managed to include a little unofficial message of her own. No Washington committee dealing with undercover operations would give much of a damn, as long as it wasn't conspicuously out of character, whether a couple of agents working together on a job traveled in two cabins or one. If anything, one cabin would be preferred, since it would provide better protection for both agents, and would cost the government less.

But our girl Madeleine—whatever her real name might be—did give a damn. She cared very much, in fact; so much that even before meeting me she was telling me to keep my cottonpicking hands to myself. She'd obviously been told enough about me to get a strong negative reaction. Maybe she disapproved of dangerous characters with lethal reputations; or maybe they simply scared hell out of her. In any case, the message from my future lady colleague was clear: two cabins and no funny-business. The man-and-wife routine was definitely out. But definitely. We were going to be friends, just friends, and I'd damn' well better not forget it.

I grinned, and stopped grinning. Professionals, whether male or female, don't generally worry all that much about who sleeps where. Her concern for her virtue labeled the lady as a stuffy and probably rather stupid amateur. This was no surprise, of course. Any outfit that had to borrow a nasty man from another department to frighten people with couldn't be very professional. Nevertheless, the prissy attitude of my associate-to-be was another warning, if I needed one, that whatever happened I'd better not count on much useful assistance from her.

I sighed, folding the letter and putting it away, remembering another female operative with whom I'd once worked; a real little trouper who, the minute we hit a hotel, had unblushingly invited me to pick out the nightie in her suitcase that did most for my virility. She'd calmly put it on and climbed into bed, saying that we had a long way to travel together as married folks, and we might as well start getting acquainted. Yet she'd been no nympho, just a practical girl solving a practical problem the simplest and most direct way; a brave kid who'd died a few months later in southern France. . . .