Free The Removers by Donald Hamilton Page A

disappeared. I wondered if he’d recognized me. It seemed unlikely, unless he had special information. They wouldn’t have much of a dossier on me yet. After all, I’d only been back in the organization a year. He’d been away from his master files a long time. He’d looked at me, to be sure, but, as Fenn, it would be part of his job to keep track of guys hanging around the boss’s daughter.
    When I returned, Moira had left the wheel and was waiting by a potted palm nearby.
    “Thanks,” she said, and lifted the glass to her lips, and tasted the contents. Then she grinned at me over the rim, turned, and deliberately poured the liquor into the gravel at the base of the palm. “Okay, baby,” she said. “That does it. You can stop worrying now.”
    “What have we been proving?” I asked.
    “The books say it isn’t hereditary,” she answered, “but every now and then I kind of have to check up on the books—like after learning for sure my dear old daddy’s a dope peddler.”
    “I never said—”
    She paid me no attention. “Or am I insulting him by calling him that? I suppose his position is strictly administrative, and he never touches the nasty stuff with his own white manicured hands. That makes it much better, of course. That makes it just swell!” She swayed slightly, and steadied herself, and spoke in a totally different tone: “Jeeps, I’m starting to feel them, now I’m standing up. How do I look, ghastly?”
    “No, but a comb wouldn’t hurt.”
    She reached up. “The damn stuff’s always falling down on me. I’ll be right back. Stand by to carry out the body and revive it with black coffee.” She took my hand and turned it so she could see my wristwatch. “My God, it’s almost time for breakfast! Food? Ugh, what a horrible thought!”
    We’d taken my truck, although it was less aristocratic than her open Mercedes, because Sheik would be more comfortable in it. The fact that I might not like a large hairy animal being comfortable among my bedding and camping gear obviously hadn’t occurred to her. When she returned from making repairs—her hairdo neatly reconstructed for the second time that evening—we rode the elevator down, crossed the hotel parking lot in silence, and got into the pickup’s cab.
    “Where do you want this coffee?” I asked.
    She hesitated. “Have you got some in that box of stuff in back? And a stove?”
    “And water,” I said, “but you’re hardly dressed for a picnic.”
    She leaned against me sleepily. “You spend more time worrying about this damn dress!” she murmured, and grinned reminiscently. “Well, talking about it, anyway. Just turn right and keep going. I’ll tell you when to turn again.”
    The transition from the gaudy night life of Reno to the dark, silent desert nearby, was almost shocking. Presently we were rolling across an arid landscape that might have been the surface of the moon or Mars, vaguely illuminated by the threat of dawn in the east. Following her instructions, I turned onto a dirt road leading back into the bleak, low hills. When there wasn’t any sign of civilization around us, I stopped the truck, set the brake, and cut the lights and motor.
    I wasn’t really feeling very amorous, but common politeness seemed to indicate a kiss, at the very least, so I reached for her. She shook her head, holding me off.
    “It’s Fenn, isn’t it?” she said.
    I could barely see the white shape of her face, and her shadowy eyes watching me. “What’s Fenn?” I asked.
    “The man I pointed out to you. Jack Fenn. He’s the one you’re after, isn’t he?”
    I said, “Don’t be too clever, Moira.”
    “You said you weren’t really interested in Dad, and I believed you. So it had to be Fenn. So I showed him to you. You didn’t give yourself away much, baby. Just a little.” She licked her lips. “It was. kind of scary, watching you. Like a hawk or something.” Then she was in my arms, holding me tightly, her face buried in my