The Betrayers

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THERE WERE NO pretty girls with leis to meet me at the Honolulu International Airport, but a greeter-type lady handed me a glass of pineapple juice when I got inside the terminal. I thought this was a comedown from the days when, according to what I'd read, a bushel of flowers and a brown-skinned beauty were just naturally bestowed on every male visitor to the Islands.

If anyone else had any interest in my arrival-and we'd tried to make sure someone would have-he didn't come up and introduce himself. I didn't really expect him to. Mac had made the local situation pretty clear to me after learning where I proposed to take my leave, al-. though he'd stalled a little at first.

"Hawaii?" he'd said, sounding surprised. "Why Hawaii, Eric?"

My real name, if it matters, is Matthew Helm, but we use the code names around that office.

"Because I've never been there, sir," I said. "Because it's a long way off and nobody knows me out there, I hope. Because I feel like lying on a beach for a change, without wondering if the gorgeous creature under the next umbrella is a crafty international spy assigned to lure me to my doom. Any objections, sir? If I'm needed, it's only some five hours by jet to the West Coast."

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