The Ravagers

II

REGINA IS a goodsized Canadian town on the great plains some hundred miles north of the border. You couldn't tell it from a U.S. prairie city if it weren't for the billboards advertising Canadian brands you never heard of-that is, in addition to such international commodities as Coke and Chevrolet. The money, I had already discovered, is Canadian dollars and cents, currently worth between five and ten per cent less than the equivalent U.S. currency; and the filling stations sell gasoline by the imperial gallon, which has five quarts instead of four. It makes your car's gas mileage look terrific until you catch on.

The night was dark and starless, with a misty promise of rain that put haloes around the neon lights of the motel and the street lights beyond. I strolled away casually, like a man with nothing on his mind and time on his hands. The little Volkswagen I'd been using in the Black Hills was parked a couple of blocks away. It was apparently the car you got these days if you were west of the Mississippi and east of California and needed four wheels for official purposes. We're not a big government agency and the budget is limited, so they can't keep the latest airconditioned Cadillacs and racing Ferraris spotted around the world for our convenience, although it would be nice.

I was familiar with this particular VW, having used it on an assignment farther south the year before. It had changed color and license since then-it was now painted black instead of pale blue, and it had Colorado instead of Arizona plates-but either the odometer had been set back or it hadn't seen much use in the intervening months: it had been in good shape when I picked it up in Denver to drive north to Rapid City, S.D.

Now, still farther north by some five hundred hasty miles, I settled myself deliberately behind the wheel, switched on, and spent a few seconds listening to the engine critically. The one thing those little Volkswagen fours won't take is being strenuously over-revved, and I hadn't lifted my foot much on the way here, not even on the downgrades. But the mill just made its usual healthy outboard-motor racket. I maneuvered out of the parking space and drove away, jazzing the throttle a bit from time to time and cocking my head to listen- acting the part of a man whose troubles, if any, were strictly mechanical.

I didn't check the rearview mirror too often, and I was careful not to look around. If anyone had followed me from the motel, I didn't want to scare him off. I wanted to bring him right along with me until I had instructions telling me what to do with him. Or her.

I found a phone booth at the corner of a shopping center parking lot. The stores were closed at this hour, the lot was empty, and I could stand at the phone undisturbed and watch the street casually through the glass of the booth while waiting for my call to go through. If there was anything significant about any of the cars that passed, I didn't spot it.

"Eric here," I said, when I heard Mac's voice on the line.

My real name, if it matters, is Matthew Helm, and at the moment I was going under the name of David Clevenger- at least I had been, on the other job-but we use the code names for official conversation.

Two thousand miles, and one international border away, Mac said, "Well?"

I made a face at the Volkswagen standing under the lights of the empty parking lot. "Have you got your red pencil handy, sir?"

"Go on."

"Scratch Agent Gregory. Our charm boy's had it."

There was a brief silence at the other end of the line, then Mac said flatly: "I see. Details?" I gave them to him, and he said: "Describe the glove."

"White kid, dressy, somewhat damaged. No manufacturer's or retailer's labels. No size marked, but it wasn't worn by a midget. The lady has long, slim, artistic fingers-or maybe just big, strong ones, it's hard to tell. Assuming, of course, that the glove was bought for the person who wore it tonight."

Mac said, "There is always the possibility of a frameup, but in this case it is unlikely."

"Well, you know more about the over-all situation than I do, sir."

"You will take over," Mac said. "The woman with whom we're dealing is five feet seven and a fraction inches tall, not an Amazon, but big enough to be eligible, I should think, as the advertising gentlemen would say, glove-wise. I can think of no other female candidate at the moment. She is heading east, accompanied by a young girl- her daughter. She is driving a pickup truck, pulling a house trailer."

I said, "That makes her a Westerner, born or transplanted. No delicate eastern flower would be caught dead in a truck."

"She has been living in the state of Washington for several years-at the White Falls Project on the Columbia River. You may have heard of it. Her husband is an eminent scientist attached to the project."

I said, "The picture is becoming clearer. Slowly."

"Gregory was supposed to make her acquaintance on the road and gain her confidence. However, she was on her guard and his reports indicate that beyond a speaking acquaintance he had so far got nowhere."

"If he'd got nowhere, why was he killed?" I asked.

"That is a very good question," Mac said dryly. "Perhaps you can find an answer."

"There's one catch, sir. My instructions emphasized speed. Secrecy was not, I gathered, of primary importance. You wanted to know why he hadn't called on schedule, as soon as possible. To find out, I had to enter the motel room. There was no way of doing it without being seen, if anyone was watching. And if anyone was, he's probably got his eye on me now. Or she has. At least a connection between Greg and me may have been established."

Mac said, "If it has, it's unfortunate, but perhaps you can work out a cover story to account for it. Did I remember to ask you to bring along the camping equipment you were using in the Black Hills?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you will find your subject a few miles east of Regina on the Trans-Canada Highway, in a campground provided by the state-that is, the Province. Check trailer space number twenty-three. It should contain a blue Ford truck and a silver trailer. Here are the vehicle license numbers, state of Washington." He read them off. "If they are still there, have yourself assigned a camping space and stay the night. Check with me in the morning for further instructions."

"And if they're gone?"

"Report back immediately. We may be able to re-locate them for you. Incidentally, the woman's name is Drilling. Genevieve Drilling."

I said, "Nobody's named Drilling. That's making a hole where there wasn't any. Or it's a special kind of three-barreled gun."

Mac ignored my feeble attempt at levity. "The daughter's name is Penelope. She is fifteen years old and wears glasses for myopia and has braces on her teeth. Apparently mother and daughter were staying over a day in Regina to see a dentist for some minor adjustments."

"Urn," I said. "Spectacles and orthodontal braces. A real little Lolita."

"The husband and father is Dr. Herbert Drilling, physicist. Mrs. Drilling has left his bed and board, and is presumed to be joining, sooner or later, a man of considerable physical attraction and questionable political affiliations calling himself Hans Ruyter. We have encountered Mr. Ruyter before under other names. Not really first-team material, but competent."

I sighed. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Could it be that Mrs. Drilling just happened to latch onto a few scientific documents of national importance belonging to hubby, as she went out the door to meet her lover?"

"I'm afraid it could be and is."

I said, "My God. The old secret-formula routine. How corny can we get? I suppose it deals with some kind of nuclear-power super-gizmo? That's what they're doing up there on the Columbia, as I recall."

Mac said, "As a matter of fact, Dr. Drilling's specialty is lasers, if you know what that is."

I whistled softly. "Laser-maser. The latter-day death ray; disciplined light waves or something. Okay, so it's important, but how did we get roped into this one, sir? We're not the national lost-and-found agency. J. Edgar Hoover's boys are real sharp on stolen documents, I'm told, and so are the members of several other agencies. What's so special about this particular batch of misplaced cellulose that they have to call on the wrecking crew, the hit-them-below-the-belt department, to find it?"

Mac said, "You are jumping to conclusions, Eric. Have I instructed you to find any documents?"

"Oh. Pardon me."

"There are some rather tricky matters involved," Mac said. "It seems to be a large and complex operation, only part of which concerns us. After you've looked over the ground and the people, I will give you the details, as far as they've been entrusted to us. Right now you had better get out there and check the campground while I get on the telephone and try to pull a few international strings to make sure Gregory's body is discovered by somebody discreet and official."

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Study the woman, and at the same time determine whether or not you are in the clear. If not, try to learn who is watching you. Do nothing hasty, however. Unfortunately we are not alone in this, if you know what I mean."

"I know," I said. "I hope they know it, too. There's nothing I hate like being shot by my friends."

"It's a chance you will have to take," Mac said. "As a matter of fact, other agencies have not been informed of our participation, and are not to be informed. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," I said, because it was the easiest thing to say, not because it was the truth.