Free The Terminators by Donald Hamilton

he needed was a backwards collar and a prayer book to appear like a gentle village parson, instead of the very clever scientific character he was supposed to be, with a gang of unscrupulous thugs under his command. They went on to the serving table without glancing our way.
    "Yes, that's Adolf Elfenbein all right," Diana said softly. "At least he fits our description; and so does she."
    "How the hell did you get involved in all this, anyway, Diana?"
    "It's a long story. Don't ask if you don't want to know."
    I said, "Somewhere up the line, my life may very well depend on your reactions. Naturally I want to know what kind of a female nut I've got for a partner on this screwball operation."
    She laughed again. "Well," she said, "it was the gas shortage that did it, believe it or not."
    "Since you give me the option, I don't believe it," I said. "I mean, it was a damned inconvenience and still is from time to time; but I can't see you getting so upset about it that you volunteer for a crazy, crooked, international mission to swipe fuel for all the thirsty Cadillacs of America. Hank Priest, sure. Those old Navy boys come all over patriotic from time to time: my country right or wrong, and all that jazz—"
    "Actually, the Skipper is avenging, or atoning for, his wife's death, didn't you know?"
    I frowned. "I thought Mrs. Priest drowned in a boating accident. That's the way I read it in the Florida papers."
    'Trances Priest drowned Because their thirty-foot sport-fishing boat—the Skipper's pride and joy, called the  Frances II  —had just run out of fuel when she fell overboard, so he couldn't go after her. The current carried her away, or something. You'll have to get the nautical details from the nautical expert, but it was a traumatic experience for him, as you can imagine: a man who'd spent his life at sea losing his wife like that! I guess he decided that no more nice U.S. ladies were going to die for lack of diesel oil, if he had to go and steal it. Anyway, he worked out this scheme and sold it in Washington. He used to be a congressman, you know, so he knew his way around and they were all in a panic at the time. This was back when things were really tight and they were scared to death of an honest-to-God revolution at the gas pumps. They were ready to grab at any idea, no matter how far out. As for the illegality of it, well, that city isn't noted for its respect for the law these days, or hadn't you noticed? So here we all are. The Great Petroleum Caper."
    "Involving The Wonderful Sigmund Siphon," I said. "That's a terrific name, but what does it mean?"
    "I don't really know what it means," she said. "Security is very tight on the subject, Mr. Helm, and you shouldn't even breathe the name aloud."
    "Sure, sure," I said. "But does it tap the oil well itself or the pipeline where it runs under the sea or what? Either way, it's got to be quite a trick, doing it undetected several hundred feet down. Of course, the North Sea is a good place for it, with the weather as lousy as it generally is. You can lose yourself out there in a hurry, most of the time. Even, I suppose, in a good-sized tanker with a big hose running over the side."
    She said, rather stiffly, "Really, I'm under orders not to talk about it to anyone. Matt. I won't help you speculate about it. As a matter of fact, I don't really know. Well, I do know what a siphon is, roughly. And I guess it's all right to tell you that this thing was invented by a kind of defrocked technician with an affinity for the bottle, now
    working around the fringes of the oil industry at any job he can get. Meanwhile he cooks up wild inventions, each one of which is going to make his fortune. Well, this one may just do the job, if the Skipper is right about it."
    "Jeez," I said. "It's a goddamned circus, that's what it is. A couple of mad scientists, a mysterious oil tycoon with a passion for privacy, and some traumatized victims of the energy crisis."
    "You forget that man called