I said wryly, "It sounds just like Old Home Week. Who's Quintana?'
"Who but friend Heinrich? In Mexico he is Kurt Quintana, son of a German mother and a Mexican father. The documents proving this are fraudulent, of course, but until it's established, he is a citizen. He can have you arrested if you bother him."
"I'll keep it in mind."
"I understand your station wagon is ailing mechanically. There is a reasonably new Volkswagen in Phoenix you can have if you like. As for weapons," Mac went on, "if you need anything special, you'll have to supply yourself locally or give us time to send out what you want. If you need an assistant, one can be provided. There are some young people at the ranch for training, one of whom might as well be picking up a little practical experience. He could, for instance, get the interviews started while you make a preliminary investigation along the border."
"Well, eleven blocks is a lot of houses," I said. "I wouldn't mind a little help, but I don't particularly want a green kid tagging along." I hesitated. The idea that had come into my mind was ridiculous, but I heard myself saying: "What about Sheila? She's been around long enough to learn the ropes a little."
"Sheila?" It took a lot to surprise him, but I'd managed.
"She wants out," I said. "Out of here. That's what she came to tell me last night."
"It's out of the question," Mac said. "Dr. Stern says-"
"Dr. Tommy has a thing about curing people, I'm afraid," I said. "I think he sometimes forgets that his job isn't to make us into perfectly adjusted human beings, it's to return us to the front lines in good shooting condition. Hell, if he ever managed to adjust us, we'd quit this racket. The girl walks and talks now, and she wants out."
"You're being sentimental," Mac said.
"Yes, sir."
"She is in no shape to-"
"To ask silly questions and record the silly answers on a questionnaire? If she isn't now, she will be in ten days. It could be a damn sight better for her than staying here and having Tommy and his nurses tinkering with her subconscious. Occupational therapy, we call it."
There was a long silence. Then his voice came reluctantly: "You'd be responsible, Eric. And remember, we have doctors on the payroll but you're not one of them. You have other duties, which must come first."
"Yes, sir."
"There is no accounting for tastes, of course," he said deliberately. "But I thought there was a lady in Texas-"
I said, "What's my love life got to do with this?"
"Then what-"
I grimaced at the sound-proof paneling in front of me. "As you say, I'm being sentimental, sir. Do you remember a man we called Vance?"
"Why, yes. He died up in northern Europe."
"Yes, sir. And do you remember a man we called LeBaron?"
"Yes. He died..,. Oh, I begin to see. Vaguely."
"Yes, sir. LeBaron was killed in Juarez, Mexico, helping me. Vance was killed in Kiruna, Sweden, helping me. And how many other good agents have I taken out and lost in the line of duty? So when for once in my life I find one instead and bring her back alive, I'd just kind of like to see that she makes it all the way. Dr. Tommy himself will admit he can't do anything for her unless she wants him to, and she doesn't. Maybe I can."
"Very well." His voice was crisp. "As I say, it's your responsibility. She can start the interviews a week from Wednesday. You'd better head down towards Antelope Wells as soon as the medical department approves. But be sure you get back to Tucson in time to take over if something goes wrong."
I said, "Yes, sir. If she blows up on the job I'll ship the pieces back here and handle the rest of it myself."
"Just remember," he said, "the mental health of one agent, or even her life, or yours, is not really significant against the larger picture."
He was starting to talk like an ad man in his old age.
"The larger picture," I said. "Yes, sir. We'll get you von Sachs."
VIII
The Border Country hadn't changed much in the time I'd been away. It was still a barren, yellowish-gray-green landscape with only an occasional cottonwood for a tree and an occasional dark mountain range to break the monotony of the rolling, empty plain. The farther south I proceeded towards Antelope Wells, the less there was to see, Anybody who wants to call it a desert will get no argument from me, although once in a while I'd drive past a windmill and water tank that would seem to indicate that this desolate-looking land was, after all, owned by somebody and used for raising something besides cactus and rattlesnakes.
After asking all the questions I could think of down there-finding somebody to ask was the real problem-I headed back to Tucson where I stopped in a sporting goods store that had a selection of hunting rifles, some with real pretty stocks dolled up with decorative inlays and thick rubber recoil pads. Unfortunately I was spending the government's money, and I doubted that I could prove to a cold-eyed department accountant that a fancy gun shoots better than a plain one, since I didn't really believe it myself. As for recoil pads, there's a theory to the effect that a lot of soft rubber between you and the gun just gives it a running start before it socks you.
Acting like a deer hunter getting a jump on the season, I picked out a standard light Winchester M70, therefore, in the good old reliable.30-06 caliber. They had some Magnums on the rack, but I didn't have the time or the facilities to fix up this gun like the one I'd left with Jiminez in Costa Verde. I'd have to shoot standard factory ammunition, for one thing, instead of working out a special load f or the gun.
It couldn't be an extra-long-range, super-precision deal this time, and the lighter cartridge would shoot far enough for the accuracy I could expect, besides being easier on the shoulder. I bought several boxes in each of several bullet weights. You never know which bullet a gun is going to like best until you try it. I got a medium-priced four-power scope and had them mount it while 1 waited.
Then I took my packages out to the car, which was still the old Pontiac station wagon, partially rejuvenated under the hood. With two of us on the job, two cars had been needed, and this seemed to be one of those years when CIA or somebody had got to all the undercover dough first. Since I was in better condition to deal with mechanical emergencies than Sheila, I was driving the antique.
I hadn't seen her since the previous weekend. We'd met for a final briefing session under the cold eye of Dr. Tom Stern, who'd done his best to discourage the whole idea, but she hadn't let him scare her. I looked for the Volkswagen now as I drove up to the modest tourist court that had been selected as our headquarters in Tucson. I'd been told the car was blue, but there were no four-wheeled foreign bugs of any color around. Well, it was still relatively early in the afternoon, and she should be out interviewing. Nevertheless I found myself disappointed and a little worried. I hoped she hadn't had a relapse or anything. It's your responsibility, Mac had said.
She'd made a reservation for me around the corner from her unit-also around the corner from the pool, which was full of yelling kids. In that part of the country, even the crummiest hostelries have pools these days. Coronado wouldn't know the place. I moved my stuff inside, made a routine check around the room, and lay down on the big double bed after making sure the air conditioner was working full blast. There wouldn't be anything new to think about until I'd talked with my assistant. In the business, you learn to grab sleep when you can, so I did.
I was awakened, presently, by a knocking on the door: three short raps followed after a pause by two more. Under certain circumstances this tells the person behind the door that it isn't necessary to go for the firearms or depart by the window; under other circumstances, such as the present, it just means hello, it's me. I got up, yawned, and went over to let her in.