The Wrecking Crew by Donald Hamilton

let’s sum it up. We can take the Taylor article two ways. One, it’s the straight dope, and Taylor just learned too much for his own good, somehow, and made the mistake of publishing it. So he was lured into a deadfall and killed to keep him from spilling whatever else he might have found out that he hadn’t put in this article and might put in the next. His wife happened to survive, and was released after they’d observed her long enough to be pretty sure she didn’t know enough to do any damage.”
    “Yes,” Sara said. “It could be that way. In which case you’re wasting your time with her.”
    I said, “She’s a bright girl; I’ve wasted more time in worse company.” The woman beside me stirred; perhaps she took the remark personally. I went on crisply: “The other possibility is that Taylor is either Caselius or is working for him, and the article was just a kind of smokescreen he threw out when it was decided that the time had come for the character of Harold Taylor, American journalist, to be dramatically withdrawn from circulation. In this case, of course, the article isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. What about the wife? Did he try to kill her to shut her up, or was there perhaps a lot of shooting to make his so-called death look plausible to her, in the midst of which she took a bullet accidentally? In that case, she’s still innocent, and we’re still wasting time playing with her. Or is she in cahoots with him, an accomplice sent back to serve some sinister purpose, now that he no longer dares show himself in his old haunts? In that case, explain her wound.”
    “Plastic surgery,” Sara said.
    “She’d have to love the guy a lot to let herself in for spending the rest of her life with a scarred neck and a baritone voice.”
    “Maybe the surgeons promised to make her as good as new when the job is done, whatever it is,” Sara said. “Anyway, women do strange things for men.”
    “And men for women,” I said, “and so endeth our philosophy lesson for the day, inconclusively. Are there any final remarks you’d care to add before we adjourn the meeting?”
    She shook her head. “No,” she said, and hesitated. “No, but… Helm?”
    “Yes?”
    “If you find Caselius…” Her voice trailed off.
    “Yes?”
    She drew a deep breath and turned to face me. “Before you… before I help you any further, I must know what you intend to do. Are you going to try to smuggle him back to the States as a prisoner, or will you just turn him over to the Swedish authorities?”
    I glanced at her, a little surprised. “Honey,” I said, “that’s none of your damn business. I have my orders. Let it go at that.” Then I frowned. “What do you care? Do you have a yen for this mystery man?”
    She drew herself up haughtily. “Don’t be vulgar! But—”
    “Quite apart from his value to the other side,” I said, “which I’ve heard estimated at a couple of armored divisions or the equivalent in fully equipped missile bases, you said yourself he’s responsible for several deaths among your colleagues, in addition to what may or may not have happened to Harold Taylor.”
    She said coldly, “I’m not responsible for Caselius’ conscience, Helm. I am responsible for my own.”
    I said, “Okay, honey. Spell it out.”
    “You’ve been sent to kill him, haven’t you? That’s your job, to hunt down a human being like an animal and destroy him! And I’m supposed to… to assist you in accomplishing your mission!”
    “Go on,” I said, as she hesitated.
    She said, “I’m in intelligence, Mr. Helm. I’m a spy, if you like, and it’s not a very respectable profession, I’ll admit, but my job is to collect and evaluate information. It is not to act as a hound dog for a hunter of men! Not that you look to me like a very efficient hunter, but that’s neither here nor there. The fact is…” The ash from her cigarette dropped into her lap, and she brushed at it quickly, annoyed by the