The Enemy Within

  He examined the walls. "Granite," he muttered. Eventually he found some chiseled letters. They said:

  Issiah Slocum Hys Myne 1689

  Heller examined some more galleries. He found some white quartz. He put it in his pocket.

  There were the rotted remains of wooden cases in some of the galleries. The bootleggers had been using the mine to hide their hooch! And that's what had happened to the "lost mine" of Goldmine Creek!

  Chapter 6

  Heller locked the place back up but he used his own padlock on the front door. A massive lock! He wasn't learning that much from G-2. The brand-new padlock stood out with its gleaming brass!

  He jumped into his car and, taking it easy, got back to the main road and ran along at normal speed back toward the town. He passed the speed trap once more. The sheriff's men were half-asleep.

  Heller went into a restaurant. It was a nice place. It had a phone kiosk in its waiting room. Heller went into the phone booth. He dialed a number. Izzy answered.

  "On target," said Heller. "It's A-okay!" My, he was getting slangy! With great rapidity he read off the data he had gotten at the courthouse, gave the realtor's name but added, "Not active in deal but send commission for PR value."

  "Right," said Izzy. "Same corporate status as planned?"

  "Right," said Heller. "Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, Limited, of Maysabongo. My number here is..." and he gave it.

  Heller went out of the phone booth and went to a table. He sat down. A waitress came. "I'm afraid it's early for lunch. The stuffed shrimp won't be ready yet."

  "Good," said Heller. "Five hamburgers, five Seven Ups."

  I had expected there would be trouble with his black face. But he was in New England. The girl brought one hamburger and one Seven Up.

  Heller ate and drank them.

  The girl brought the next serving, one hamburger, one Seven Up. They were doing them one at a time! Nice place.

  Heller got a paper and read it.

  All the hamburgers and Seven Ups were gone and he topped it with a chocolate sundae.

  The phone in the booth rang. Heller went over and answered.

  Izzy's voice. "John Smith has been in a federal pen for years. He got life for negligence of bribery of J. Edgar Hoover. His mistress held on to the place for sentimental reasons but she died last year. Smith was going to let the place go for taxes as he had no way to pay them. I just phoned him and he's overjoyed. So's the warden as he's going to sell Smith a new cell. It's yours."

  "Thank you," said Heller.

  "Mr. Jet," said Izzy. "Don't get in any trouble, please. Connecticut is way out in the wilds. They may still have Indians there."

  "Thanks for the warning," said Heller.

  He paid his bill with a liberal tip and went out and jumped into his cab.

  He turned north again, on the same highway.

  And then, despite all Izzy had warned him of, Heller opened that cab up to eighty miles an hour!

  He went scorching up that road.

  And just before he came in sight of the speed trap, he started the cab weaving!

  And just at the trap itself he veered onto the verge in a cloud of dust, shot back onto the road, went off the other side and came back on the highway!

  Then he slowed to forty!

  The crazy fool!

  That sheriff's car came out of the trap like a fish leaping from the water after a mayfly!

  Its lights went on. Its chortle racketed!

  It came screaming up the road after him!

  Heller went ahead just fast enough to keep a dis­tance. But I knew that cab couldn't outrun a police car! It was geared down for sudden maneuvering!

  The pursuer was almost upon him.

  Heller skidded the cab to the left and plunged off the edge of the road!

  He was on the same track he had been over before!

  The old car bumped and lurched and swayed! It darted around trees! It swept along over the tops of weeds! It was heading toward the old roadhouse! Did Hel­ler intend to fort up and shoot it out? What was he up to?

  In the rearview mirror he caught glimpses of the police car. It was having very heavy weather of it. Heller slowed down!

  Ahead was the grove which held the building.

  Behind was the chortling, raving, flashing police car!

  Ten yards short of the nearest trees, in an open area, Heller suddenly stopped!

  He got out!

  He tossed some sort of a folder on the front seat.

  He adjusted his mustache.

  On the left side of the cab, he planted his feet wide apart.

  He put his hands out and leaned forward to support his body against the car roof. He was assuming the clas­sic frisk position.

  With one last slither and bounce the police car jolted to a stop behind the cab. The chortling ceased with a dying snarl.

  A deputy sheriff leaped out each side, guns drawn.

  They stopped.

  They looked around warily.

  One walked up to Heller and began to frisk him.

  Almost instantly he struck pay dirt!

  He swept aside the tail of Heller's coat. There was a jerk. The deputy sheriff stepped around into Heller's view.

  He was holding that gold damascene Llama .45!

  "Ralph!" said the deputy. "Jesus Christ, look at this piece of jewelry!"

  "What the hell is it?" said the other, coming closer.

  "It's a God (bleeped) diamond-plated cannon, that's what."

  "Lemme see that, George. Looks like one of them old-time gangster rods!"

  "Naw, that ain't no Colt .45 ACP, Ralph."

  "Yes, it is! It's just been engraved or something."

  "Naw! Look there! This fancy picture on the side says it's a Maysabongo."

  George said to Heller, "Hey, nigger. What the hell kind of a handgun is this thing?"

  "Me no talk beautiful English," said Heller in a high-pitched voice. "English not native tongue."

  Ralph said, "He's some kind of a foreigner."

  George said, "Hey, nigger. You got a permit for this thing?"

  "Look on seat," said Heller.

  George leaned into the cab. He evidently found the folder Heller had dropped there. But he continued to lean in, looking it over. He was muttering.

  George backed out. "What the hell, Ralph. I can't make head or tails out of this." He walked over to his partner.

  "Mebbe so you better call in on beautiful radio," said Heller. "Checkee license plate."

  George said, "Oh, yeah." He went to the back of the cab, made a note and then, carrying the papers, went back to the police car and leaned in. Ralph stayed alert, holding the Llama pistol in one hand and keeping his own Colt .357 Magnum trained on Heller.

  I couldn't hear the radio conversation because they'd left their motor running and George was too deep in the police car. Suddenly he backed out, microphone still in hand. "Ralph! Does that car look like a foreign limou­sine to you?"

  Ralph pushed his cowboy hat back with the Llama barrel and then moved to get a better look at the old cab. "Yeah, George. It looks old enough to be un-American."

  George ducked back inside the police car. Then sud­denly he backed into plain view, pulling the microphone with him. His eyes were popped. He said, "No (bleep)?"

  He leaned in and put the microphone on its hook. Holding the papers, he went over to Ralph. "Look, Ralph. These papers say this is Rangtango Blowah, Republic of Maysabongo, Consul for the State of Con­necticut. Now, them tags is diplomatic tags. The dis­patcher checked with Washington. This nigger has got diplomatic imboomity."

  "What the hell is that?" said Ralph.

  "The dispatcher says Washington says you can't put a finger on him. He can do anything he pleases. We can't arrest him no matter what he commits."

  "Jesus! Diplomatic imboomity? Must mean he could blow the whole place up and we couldn't even touch him."

  "I'm afraid so," said George.

  "Oh, (
bleep)!" said Ralph. "Can't we even impound this handgun?"

  "I'm afraid not," said George. "Give it back to him. He could even shoot us and we couldn't say a word!"

  Heller took the weapon back from a reluctant Ralph. "This whole place now," he said in a high-pitched voice, "proppity of part of Republic of Maysabongo. You not in States United now. You standing in Maysabongo."

  "Jesus," said Ralph. "The God (bleeped) foreigners are buying up the whole (bleeping) country!"

  "I'm afraid so," said George.

  "Look, nigger," said Ralph. "We saw you drive nice and peaceful by us twice. What the hell was the idea of suddenly speeding?"

  "Test," said Heller. "Me see if you good alert top man fine cops. You pass test very good, please."

  He reached into his wallet and took out two one-hundred-dollar bills. He gave one to each of them. "Every month, you each get one."

  "Did the chief pass the test?" said George, "He's my uncle."

  Heller took out two more one-hundred-dollar bills. "He good man. He pass test double. So he get same so each month, too."

  They were putting the bills in their wallets. "My God," said Ralph. "We can't even get him for bribing an officer! This imboomity has advantages!"

  "Hey," said George, "this is just like the old times my grandpappy used to tell me about. When the boot­leggers had this place, they paid off regular and you couldn't touch them, either!"

  "No, no, no," said Heller in his high-pitched voice.

  "Not bribe. Please raise left hand. Maysabongo do every­thing left-handed. Now say after me: 'I now part-time honorary...'"

  The deputies both did.

  "'... deputy sheriff in marines of Maysabongo... and do aforesaid promise... if I see anything strange going on, I look other way ... and if I see stranger tres­passing I blow heads off.'"

  They repeated it all carefully.

  Heller reached into his pocket and brought out three plain, gold stars with nothing on them. He handed one to each of the deputies. Then he gave George the third. "You tell uncle chief he sworn in, too. Here his badge."

  "Hey!" said Ralph. "It's legal after all! You could tell he wasn't a hundred percent pure nigger. He's got blue eyes!"

  "One more thing," said Heller. "Me hire whitey engineer. He very good man. He gottee pale hair. He got diplomatic imboomity, too, so he okay if you see here." And he handed them a passport picture of himself.

  They looked at it gravely. George gave it and the folder back. He raised his hat very politely. "You can count on us to blow heads off anybody you say," he promised.

  Ralph raised his hat.

  They got into their police car and drove off.

  With a horrible shock, it suddenly came to me what that (bleeped) Heller had done! He had enlisted the local constabulary! Nobody else could get near that place now!

  At the place he would use for a garage, the old lady would blow people's heads off. At the roadhouse, the deputy sheriffs would blow people's heads off.

  How perfectly awful of Heller! We couldn't get our noses into either place to sabotage things!

  As soon as we got the platen, the bump-off of Heller would have to be done in New York!

  (Bleep) him. I knew we'd be in trouble if he started studying espionage. And here it was!

  PART TWENTY-TWO

  Chapter 1

  Fate is seldom kind. And when it starts shovelling out bad news, it seldom knows when to stop.

  Heller had worked around the roadhouse for the rest of that day, mainly airing things out and making sure the stove worked—I suppose because winter was on its way. He seemed to enjoy it outside. He admired the maples, the leaves already reddening from a night frost. He trot­ted up to a hilltop and looked all around. He seemed to be very interested in rocks in the flat field near the road-house, for he took a blasting cord and levelled a couple outcrops—he just loves to explode things!

  The last thing he did was post a sign. It said:

  Property Trespassers

  Will Be Deported to Elsewhere

  with Their Heads Blown Off

  Not Responsible for Damage Done by Mine Fields

  He found a place where he could get the cab across the river and was soon going deeper into the country. Abruptly, the other side of the abandoned gas station came into view. It was on the same forgotten road!

  The old lady fumbled around and opened the garage door for him. Heller drove in, played his light over himself and then over the cab and in no time at all had restored everything to its original color.

  He went out and fixed a sagging chicken-coop door for the old lady, cut her some firewood by playing a dis­integrator gun at sections of logs, had a cup of coffee, listened to what a nice young man he was, and by twi­light was rolling along back to New York.

  Whatever he was doing, he was making a lot too much progress and a lot too fast!

  It was well past midnight where I was. I was just crawling into my otherwise empty bed, pretty exhausted in fact, when there came a knock on the door.

  It was Faht Bey. He handed me an envelope and went away.

  Groggily, I opened it. I read the first two lines and sat abruptly down. It was the expected report from Raht and Terb:

  AGENT UPDATE

  We have good news for you.

  We are in the hospital.

  We did exactly what you said.

  Immediately on our arrival in New York, we procured suitable credentials from the forger as UN delegates from Zimbabwe. We obtained suitable cos­tumes. In this suitable guise we proceeded upon our assignment.

  We went to the designated target area as or­dered.

  At the desk we made appointments with two suitable girls and paid the suitable amount, receipts attached.

  Proceeding on schedule, we did not go to the assigned rooms but instead, detoured to the top floor.

  As per informant advice, the door to the subject's room was open. There was nobody in the suite.

  We entered and proceeded to ransack the place. We went into every cupboard and crevice. Subject certainly has a lot of clothes.

  We were just completing the search by restoring what we could when the door to the suite opened.

  A high-yellow whore about five foot ten inches tall with silver finger and toenails, wearing a pur­ple dressing gown, not tied and open in front and wearing nothing else, walked in.

  Said high-yellow whore was accompanied by a tan whore about five foot two inches tall with red finger and toenails of apparent Tahitian racial extraction, wearing a small hand towel and black hair.

  Said high-yellow ejaculated, "What the hell are you (bleepards) doing in Pretty Boy's room?" The voice was not modulated. No recording of it is attached.

  Agent Terb, being nearer the door, sought by prescribed and standard means to seize the Tahi­tian. With a standard riposte and cross-slice with hand edge, said Tahitian broke said Agent Terb's arm.

  Agent Raht, unable to get behind a bar which is positioned to the right of the said suite's door and which contains Seven Up and nonalcoholic Swiss beer and ice cream, raised a standard #18 cosh which contains three and a quarter pounds of birdshot and brought it down in the prescribed fashion, intending to knock out the high-yellow who was advancing with gown flying wide open.

  Said high-yellow's right foot advanced and connected with said cosh which then flew into bed­room, which has a circular bed big enough, accord­ing to professional estimate, to hold six.

  Seeking to use a snatch draw, said Agent Raht, bending, directed his hand toward the Colt Cobra which regulations require to be affixed to an agent's right ankle.

  The maneuver, though standard, was inter­rupted by the left foot of said high-yellow rising in a swirl kick and connecting with the jaw of said Agent Raht, which broke.

  Agent Terb, seeking to use his remaining arm on the Tahitian in a standard chop found it mis­directed into the tube of the Sylvania 25-inch, by diagonal measurement, television set.

  Agent Raht was hit with a bottle
of Seven Up in the back of the skull by an unorthodox maneu­ver executed by the high-yellow.

  Lying on the floor, looking up, Agents Terb and Raht saw a young man, about five foot four, dressed in a blue three-piece suit, with black hair, answering to the name of Giuseppe, which may or may not be an a.k.a., standing there holding a Beretta Model 1934 Italian Automatic pistol caliber .380 with its safety catch off.

  Said young man told the said high-yellow and said Tahitian to get up off the chests of said Agents Raht and Terb respectively at which said high-yellow made a request as follows: "Let me hit the (bleepard) again, Guiseppe." A request which was ignored by said Guiseppe who was on the phone. Said high-yellow accordingly struck said Agent Raht in the solar plexus which produced paralysis.

  Three and a half minutes later a second young man, five foot three inches tall, black hair, black eyes, wearing a gray suit and carrying an eighteen-inch rubber truncheon, appeared. His name is unknown as he was not addressed by name. The Tahitian requested that any further work done not be done in "Pretty Boy's" suite.

  Accordingly, Agents Raht and Terb were escorted to a room in the basement, about ten feet by twelve feet, furnished by a table and two chairs.

  One answering to the name of Vantagio appeared. He is about five foot two, has black hair and black eyes and was dressed in a suit of dark material, expensively cut.

  The young man Giuseppe said, "Vantagio..." but the rest of it was in Italian. There is no recording attached.

  Said Vantagio did then remove said wallets and other I.D. from the said agents and said in English, "Hold up on that rubber club until I verify."

  Said Vantagio left.

  Said Vantagio returned.

  Said Vantagio said, "You (bleepards) aren't from the UN. The Secretary General's office never heard of you. These are forged." This remark was addressed to the said Agents Raht and Terb.

  Said Vantagio said to the said Guiseppe and the other young man, "Work these (bleepards) over and find out where they really are from." He left.

  Said other young man, utilizing the rubber truncheon in an experienced manner for one hour and fifteen minutes, was, however, unable to extract further information from the said agents.