The Intriguers

V.

In the morning, I got over to the marina about nine to find that I'd missed all the excitement-which was exactly what I'd hoped for and why I'd taken my time packing and eating. I'd figured that with daylight and a calm sea something might be found, and I preferred not to be around when it was.

Now I learned that an early-rising fisherman, leaving the harbor at dawn, had spotted an object washed up on one of the guano-covered rocks off the entrance, and had swung over to investigate. He'd come racing back to report a dead man. The police had brought in the body, sent it into Guaymas, and interrogated its discoverer at considerable length. A khaki-clad officer was waiting to talk with me, although I wasn't considered particularly important. All I'd found was a boat.

Once again, I told where I'd found it, and how I'd done my best to search for the owner in spite of the lousy weather conditions. I was thanked for my trouble and instructed to go on about my business, so I drove over to the trailer parked in the nearby lot, hitched it onto the station wagon, and backed it down the launching ramp into the water. Then I got my boat and ran it over there. With the help of a couple of dockside characters, who earned a US buck apiece for their labors, I eventually got it onto the trailer. The main trouble, I guess, was that I wasn't used to cranking boats onto trailers; but there was also the problem caused by the complicated design of the little craft's bottom: a puzzle of grooves, ridges, and sponsons. You had to get her placed exactly right or the various rollers and supports just wouldn't fit.

After lashing things down, I drove over to the nearby freshwater hose. I was rinsing the salt off the motor when Martha Borden appeared from the direction of the trailer court, dressed as she had been the night before, except that she was barefooted. Apparently the ragged sneakers had been a concession to the formality of the Posada San Carlos. She was carrying a bulging rucksack and a pair of big Japanese binoculars-at least I figured they were Japanese from the beat-up, cardboard-looking case. They've licked the problem of optical glass over there, but they still have a lot to learn about leather.

I said, "Well, they found him, just about where you guessed he'd wind up. He must have drifted a little more slowly than you figured, that's all."

She looked at me for a moment and licked her unpainted lips. "Dead?"

"Very."

"And it doesn't bother you a bit?"

I said, "Sure, it bothers me. I get the shakes every time I think about how it could have been me."

"Damn you," she said. "Where do you want me to put this junk?"

"You're coming with me?"

"You know I am."

I guess I had known it, at that. "Toss your gear in the back of the station wagon," I said. "Then, if you want to be helpful, you can climb up into the boat-use the trailer fender for a step-amid grab this hose and rinse things oil a bit, particularly the aluminum trim, so it won't corrode. I was going to have a professional job done, but it's getting late and we'd better not waste the time. You'll find a sponge up forward. I've got to go up to the office and take care of the bill."

Twenty minutes later we were on our way, with the official blessings of the marina lady and the police. The paved two-lane road followed the coast for a few miles to an intersection, where a right turn would have taken us to Guaymas and points south. I turned left instead, towards Hermosillo, Nogales, and the US border.

There's not much between Guaymas and Hermosillo, and for that matter there's only a little more between Hermosillo and Nogales. As we gathered speed across the empty, semi-desert landscape, the girl beside me squirmed a bit, tugged at her pants, and adjusted her jersey over her unconfined breasts in a gingerly sort of way: she'd managed to get herself pretty wet, hosing down the boat. Not that it mattered.' In that climate she'd be dry shortly, and it wasn't as if she had a pair of sharply creased slacks to worry about, or a crisply ironed blouse, or an expensive, nicely waved hairdo. I suppose in a way it was a relief to get away from such conventional concerns.

"Too much air-conditioning?" I asked politely.

"No, it feels good." She hesitated. "I've got a list for you, you know."

"I figured you had something. Where is it?"

"It's memorized. He didn't want me carrying anything on paper. That's why I had to come along."

"Sure," I said. "When do I get a reading?"

"I can tell you the first name now. There's a woman called Lorna staying at the ranch temporarily. Ostensibly she's resting up between assignments; actually she's there for protection, waiting for word from you."

"And just what am I supposed to do with the lady once I've got her?"

"I don't know," Martha said. "That will be up to you, after you've talked with Washington."

I made a face. "God, aren't we mysterious! Lorna. She's a tough one, I've heard. Won't take orders from any man. Except Mac."

"Why should she? Why should a woman have to work under a man if she's as good as a man?"

I said, "Well, it's the customary reproductive position, but I understand there are others." Martha gave me a withering glance. "Funny!"

I grinned. "There you sit, wearing a man's zip-up-the-front pants and a man's hairdo, giving me that poor-downtrodden-women line. Just what do you think would happen to me if I started wandering around the countryside in a woman's skirt with my hair clear down my back? What would happen to any man who tried it? You know damn well we'd be locked up as transvestite perverts so fast it would make your head swim. Hell, we poor men can't let our hair grow even a little without half the cops in the country trying to bash in our heads, but you ladies can cut it all off any time you feel like it and nobody bats an eye. Which sex was it you said was being discriminated against?" She gave me another scorching look, obviously unimpressed by my argument. Well, maybe it wasn't much of an argument. I asked, "What's Lorna's real name?"

"I don't know if it's her real name or not, but she's calling herself Helen Holt."

"And judging by her reputation, I don't guess we'll get to call her Nellie for short," I said wryly. "What does she look like?"

"About my height, five-eight, but thinner, say one-twenty. About thirty. She's supposed to be kind of handsome, if you like the lean and bony type. Brown hair, greenish eyes." Martha glanced at me sideways. "You really don't know? You're not just testing me again?"

"That's right," I said. "We're normally kept apart as much as possible, and told as little as possible about each other. That way nobody betrays anybody."

I kept the heavy rig rolling northwards as fast as the narrow highway permitted. It got a little tricky meeting or passing the big Mexican trucks, mostly christened in the local fashion. One trucker with a literary turn of mind had named his big diesel tractor Moby Dick; another had painted Adios Amor across his massive front bumper, presumably after a traumatic affair of the heart. We stopped for lunch in Hermosillo and reached the border early in the afternoon.

Here, everything came to a stop while our friendly customs people welcomed us back to our native land with an interminable search of both the station wagon and the boat. At last, they even got a dog and boosted him into the boat-all eighty pounds of him-to sniff out whatever they might have overlooked, which turned out to be nothing at all. The dog looked as if he didn't appreciate the vital importance of his task and would rather have been sleeping in the sun or chasing rabbits. Well, dogs have a lot of sense.

As we drove away from there, I glanced at my watch. It read a few minutes after three-thirty. I passed up three public telephones and settled for the fourth, at a filling station where I also took the opportunity to tank up with US gas.

"Here I go," I said to the girl.

"Remember, call the office, not the special number."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "I may be senior as hell, but my memory isn't failing me quite yet."

At that, it took me a second or two, once I was in the booth, to remember the office number. Agents of my stratospheric seniority don't use it very often. We generally call Mac direct when we need instructions. I finally dredged the figures out of the sludge at the bottom of my mind, gave them to the operator, and fed enough coins into the machine to play the right music for her. Normally, I'd have reversed the charges, but in this case I had a hunch it was better not to announce who was calling. Mac had wanted to demonstrate something, and I figured I had better find out what it was before I started tossing around names and identifications.

I stood there waiting for the circuits to operate, and watching the girl get out of the car and head for the restroom. Suddenly a voice was speaking in my ear, a female voice with a professional telephone-girl lilt.

"Federal Information Center," the voice said. I said nothing for a moment, and the girl spoke a little less liltingly, almost sharply: "Federal Information Center!"

I hung up slowly. I needed a moment to digest what I'd just heard.