Matt Helm 11 - The Menacers by Donald Hamilton

Author:Donald Hamilton [Hamilton, Donald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Helm 11
Published: 2012-07-14T18:29:13+00:00

Chapter 14

Carrying the suitcases into the unit that had been assigned to us, I was surprised at the icy sharpness of the wind off the gulf. I remembered the sweltering heat of Mazatlán, only a few hundred miles south on the same coastline-well, seven or eight hundred. Apparently the weather had changed drastically during the couple of days I'd been out of Mexico.

I set the bags down and went over to investigate the primitive gas heater set into the wall.

The room was just a cinderblock cell, gaudily painted and cheaply furnished; and like any beach house in autumn, it had a damp and clammy feel. I felt Carol come up to stand behind me.

"Matt, what's a spook?"

"I believe the word is a colloquialism for ghost or disembodied spirit, ma'am," I said without looking around.

"But it's also slang for intelligence agent or spy, isn't it?" Carol laughed softly. "She really let your cat out of the bag, didn't she?"

I turned the valve, applied a lighted match to the outrushing gas, and closed the battered cover of the heater. "I've never seen the dame before in my life," I said. "It was a simple case of mistaken identity. You heard her admit it."

"Of course, darling. There are so many men six-feet-four running around these days, you just can't tell them all apart."

I got up and turned to face her. She looked at me for a moment, smiling; then her smile died, and she reached out and touched my cheek with her fingertips. "I'm sorry. If you aren't allowed to tell me anything, you aren't, and I shouldn't tease you. Matt, do you love me? Or is that classified information, too?"

I made the standard response to that ancient question. I took her into my arms and kissed her hard. Her lips were warm and responsive, and as I held her I couldn't help the thought, that comes to us dangerous gents from time to time, that it would really be pleasant to have an understanding woman to come home to between assignments-particularly if the understanding woman were blonde and lovely and nice to be with like, say, Carol Lujan. After a little, she held me off gently.

"That's not . . . not answering my question!" she said, rather shakily.

I grinned. "Why are women always so dead set on having it put into words?"

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