Assignment Burma Girl

by Edward S. Aarons

  “But if you stay too long, they’ll get here and kill you,” Eva begged. “Let him go, Emmett.”

  “Shut up. Nobody can kill me. Not in this jungle. I’ll get away when I’m ready. And I’ll come back. There won’t be a basha left standing in Nambum Ga when I’m through. I’ll teach them a lesson the whole province will remember. I’ll drown them in their own blood.”

  All the time Emmett spoke, he did not take his eyes from the area where Durell lay in the bushes. Durell realized that Emmett did not know precisely where he had fallen. It gave him a faint measure of hope. If Emmett came close enough, without spotting him—

  But Emmett knew other tactics.

  He clicked his rifle and brought it to his shoulder, fired once, twice, three times into the bushes where Durell was hidden. The first bullet struck five feet from Durell, clipping twigs and leaves in a brittle shower around him. The second slapped into the soft earth near his feet. The third was even closer, kicking up dirt that sprayed across his arm.

  “Come on, Durell, come out of there!”

  He did not move. He said nothing.

  Emmett laughed and fired three more times. He was establishing a pattern, Durell saw, that eventually would send a bullet into every square foot of the area. These last three shots ranged slightly farther away, but still there was no hope to be gleaned.

  He saw no way to save himself.

  “All right,” he called. “I’m coming out.”

  Durell stood up.

  The brush and young bamboo trees still sheltered him, towering overhead. Emmett Claye was poised on the third step from the bottom of the pagoda. His thin body was tense, the rifle ready at his hip. On the platform above was Eva’s figure, her pale, ash-colored hair gleaming in the starlight. Durell did not see Paul.

  Emmett’s grin was marked by dark, hollow shadows. “Come out where I can see you, Durell.”

  “I have no gun,” Durell said.

  “I guessed that. Come on out.”

  “Emmett,” Eva whispered from above. “Please let him go.”

  “And let him tell everybody back home that you’re staying with me for a few months?”

  “I’m not staying, Emmett. You’re mistaken about everything. I don’t know why you think I’ll stay.”

  “You have no choice, Eva. I say you will stay."

  “I’ll never agree to what you want to do.”

  “A little education will fix that.”

  She whispered, “Emmett, everything is different back home. You don’t know what it’s like. Everything is all right now. The bad times are over. They can be over for you, too. I’ll help you in every way I can. There are reasons why you did all these terrible things, but I’ll get lawyers to argue the case and they’ll have to let you go, if you’ll only try to help yourself.”

  His harsh laughter rang out like the clashing of gongs. “You’re naive. They’ll only shoot me as a traitor.”

  “But you could explain—”

  “Shut up!” he yelled. “I’m sick of hearing you whine about how good things are for you now! Shut up, do you hear?”

  But she went on, “If you kill Durell now, it will be too late for everything, don’t you see? You could never go back home again.”

  She had come down the stairs with her last words, and now she reached out a hand to touch him and emphasize her plea.

  It was at that moment that Durell realized his gun lay at his feet. It had fallen when he toppled from the cliff and landed in almost exactly the same spot where he had struck. He could see its barrell gleaming dully in the starlight among the leaves below him.

  At the same instant, Eva’s touch on Emmett’s shoulder triggered an explosive fury in the man. He turned violently shouting something incoherent, and struck her across the face with a brutal sweep of his arm. Screaming, she fell backward on the stone steps. He turned, the rifle pointed down at her, and for an instant Durell expected him to trigger a volley of shots into her. His face was a mask of fury. The girl looked stunned, incredulous. Blood ran from her smashed mouth.

  “Bitch!” Emmett whispered. “Whore!”

  Durell dropped, picked up his gun and stood up again.

  There was an instant before he could raise it to fire and Emmett caught Durell’s move from the tail of his eye. The man was as fast as a cat; his speed was incredible. Emmett fired from the hip, down the steps at Durell’s tall figure. Durell’s shot came at the same moment.

  He saw Emmett jerk backward and stagger and knew he had scored a hit. At the same moment, something struck him again in the shoulder with incredible force, spinning him around, knocking him down.

  Eva screamed. Durell was on his hands and knees, trying to rise. He told himself to get up or stay there and be killed. But he could not move. Sweat poured from him. He heard Eva scream again and then there were quick, staggering footsteps. Again he tried to rise. The earth heaved and went spinning away from under him. His face was pressed against the warm loam of the jungle floor. He did not know how badly he was hit. There was a numbness down the left side of his body, but he still held his gun, listening to the staggering rush of footsteps come toward him, halt, and then come on again.

  There was another pause.

  “Durell?”

  His name was spoken with a gasp of hatred. He tried to rise a third time, aware of shouting somewhere and the distant crack of a rifle. He could see nothing through the clump of bushes where he had fallen. But neither could Emmett. Still, Emmett was on his feet, and unless he could match that, he was finished.

  Again, he told himself to get up.

  He made it, staggering back against the trunk of a tree for support.

  Emmett stood before him.

  He had lost his rifle, but in its place he held a jungle knife and the blade glittered in die starlight. Emmett’s face looked gray. He held the knife in a gutting position for an upthrust stroke into Durell’s stomach.

  Durell tried to raise his gun.

  “Don’t,” Emmett whispered. “You won’t make it.”

  “I have to try,” Durell said.

  They faced each other in stalemate. Emmett’s breathing was a strained, irregular gasp. A dark stain of blood ran down his side. But the knife in his hand was steady and poised as he whispered, “So you and Paul came here looking for my grave, eh?”

  “I still expect to see it,” Durell said flatly.

  “Not now. Not ever. You won’t kill me. Nobody can.” There came another burst of shouting from the monastery on top of the hill. Both men listened. There followed a series of quick, exuberant shots. Emmett sucked in an angry breath.

  “Those aren’t your men,” Durell said. “Ingkok’s people have wiped you out.”

  “You can’t be sure,” Emmett whispered.

  “I’m sure. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “By then you’ll be split like a fish,” Emmett gasped. “Move your gun an inch, and you’re a dead man.”

  Durell felt Emmett’s image waver before him for a moment. “Then we’re both dead,” he said. “Whatever you do, I’ll have time to pump two or three shots into you.” Emmett grinned. His face was like a death’s-head. “If that’s the best bargain I can make, I’ll take it.”

  Eva spoke sharply from behind him.

  “Drop the knife, Emmett.”

  She had his rifle. He did not turn to look at her. He knew what she had done from the commanding tone of her voice.

  “Honey,” he said with satisfaction. “Honey, let him have it.”

  “Drop the knife,” she whispered. “Please!”

  “Eva, kill him!” he shouted. “Now!”

  “I can’t. But I can kill you, Emmett. Only—don’t make me do it. I didn’t come all the way here to kill you. I want to take you to the States with me. Please, Emmett. Listen to me. Throw the knife away.” “Are you crazy?” he shouted. “This is Emmett you’re talking to! Now, do as I say or—”

  “Or what?” she asked bitterly. “Will you hit me ag
ain. Make me a prisoner and brainwash me? Use my money for a payroll for a spy ring back home?”

  “Listen, Eva—”

  She sounded tired. “Emmett, I won’t ask you again.”

  Durell saw her through blurred vision. He knew that nothing could stop the driving thrust of Emmett’s knife. The man was no longer in control of what he was doing, driven by a demoniacal fury that could not be stopped short of death.

  His gun was pointed at the ground when he pulled the trigger. Emmett did not expect the wasted shot. Surprise delayed him for a split-second before he lunged forward with the knife. From somewhere, Durell found the strength to turn a little, twisting away from the glistening blade. Durell fired again, then heard the smashing blow of the rifle in Eva’s hand, and fired a third time.

  Emmett fell against him, gasping. Durell tried to hold him up and twisted the knife from his hand. It fell to the ground, but he could not support Emmett. They both sagged down together.

  Emmett’s face was turned up to the sky. Durell saw the shadow of a cloud obscure the stars and Emmett’s face moved into the shadow. The man was grinning at some infinite joke that would stay with him forever.

  He was dead.

  Durell straightened slowly. His shoulder was still numb, but he knew the pain would come soon. He looked up at Eva and saw that her rifle now was pointed at him.

  “Where is Paul?” he asked.

  She gestured vaguely. “Back there, on the pagoda.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “I think so.”-

  “Let’s go get him,” he said.

  Durell watched her carefully unable to read anything through the unnatural calm that masked her face. Then she lowered the rifle.

  Down the trail from the monastery came a quick padding of running feet. Durell turned and saw Pra Ingkok at the head of a small column of his troopers.

  “Let’s go, Eva,” he said.

  Thirteen

  Rangoon was hot and steamy, teeming with people who went about their business in cheerful normalcy. Durell, whose wound had been attended by a doctor in Myitkyina and redressed by the house doctor in the hotel, took a trishaw to the bungalow where Eva and Paul Hartford were staying near Victoria Lake: It had taken five days to come downriver on Van der Peet’s boat, added to a bumpy train passage to Mogaung and then a flight on one of the BAT DC-3’s back to Rangoon. His shoulder was stiff and occasionally ached, but it did not prevent him from getting about now.

  Colonel Savarati had been waiting at the airport for him, having received his radio message. The Burmese was reserved and hostile at first. He allowed the Hartford’s to go back to their house, dismissed Simon Locke with a shrug, as if he was of no importance, and reserved his sole attention for Durell.

  “We have been advised of the events at Nambum Ga,” he said stiffly. “The Defense Ministry is sending a paratroop battalion to secure the area against the Lahpet Hao. Without Major Mong it should be possible to maintain order there for some time to come. We are grateful to you. Your mission was eminently successful.”

  “It’s not over yet,” Durell said flatly.

  “I did not think so. You have more questions that require urgent answers, is it not so? I think I can help you in this matter.”

  Then Durell had spent two hours with the Burmese security officer, studying reports that Savarati made available to him and listening to the testimony of certain bedraggled witnesses that Savarati ordered to his office. At the end of that time, Durell said grimly, “I’d better get in touch with Chet Lowbridge at once.”

  He had telephoned the Embassy from Savarati’s office, but when he hung up he stared at the Burmese in frustration. “Chet left for the States last night on a special courier mission. That’s what they say. I’m not sure but what Lowbridge arranged to get back to Washington ahead of me to avoid meeting me here.”

  “It is possible,” Savarati said. “What will you do?” “Nothing, here. I’ll fly back myself and take the evidence you’ve given me, with your permission.”

  “You are more than welcome to what we have learned.” Durell stood up and they shook hands. Savarati was calm and neutral. “In the matter of Major Mong, we are grateful. We will permit Locke and Miss Tarrant to continue their BAT enterprise—but they will have to submit to extremely strict governmental regulations in the future.” Durell smiled. “I think you’ll find that Locke will be more cooperative and responsible from now on.”

  “I trust that will be so. As for the Hartfords—”

  “I’m going to see them now,” Durell said.

  He made arrangements for his flight before taking the trishaw to Victoria Park. On impulse, he first ordered the driver to take him through the Chinese quarter to Simon’s house. It was the hottest part of the day, and even the Chinese soup shops were doing only a desultory business. The sound of firecrackers celebrating some local event startled him, and he was surprised at his tension. He forced himself to relax, but felt an unwillingness to proceed with his business. He knew it was because of Savarati’s evidence, and although it was not entirely unexpected, he felt a loneliness and a sense of defeat. His assignment was finished, in one sense; and yet it had just begun. It would never end, he thought, as long as men were subject to self-interest and weak to the point of betrayal. What he had to do was one of the unpleasant parts of his job, an area of his business that he always regretted.

  Simon Locke’s house looked sheltered and peaceful in the hot afternoon sunlight. Two workmen were repairing the damaged kitchen where the bomb had killed the French pilot, Jackie Houphet. Simon and Merri greeted him on the veranda. Merri kissed him briefly, smiling. She looked different, and so did Simon. Both of them regarded him with pleasure.

  “You did a lot for us, Cajun,” Locke said. He looked younger and refreshed, and some of the haunted look had left his eyes. “We heard from Savarati, and we understand that BAT isn’t finished yet, if we cooperate. So we’re going to stay on here, after all.”

  “I wish you both luck,” Durell said.

  “Give my regards to Broadway,” Merri said. “I guess I’ll only see it in my dreams—or on a visit with Simon.”

  Durell looked at Locke. “Are you all right now, you think?”

  “Fll be okay with Merri’s help,” he said quietly.

  “I’m glad,” Durell said.

  There was nothing more to be said. He saw their quiet excitement with each other, and it only deepened his own solitude. He knew that this feeling would pass, as it had other times. He had chosen his lonely road long ago when he first entered the business, and he knew that nothing would change it. But it was always good to know people like Simon and Merri, who had found solutions for themselves. He did not envy them, but at the moment he found it difficult to remain with them.

  He took only one drink, made his excuses, and left.

  It was no better at Eva’s house near Victoria Lake. He did not stay long. Durell felt relieved when the time came for him to catch his plane bound for the States—

  Eva watched Durell walk away with feelings of mixed relief and regret. She stared after his tall figure for a long while as he got into the trishaw. It was strange, but she expected him to look back, to smile, to glance at her with remembrance of those few wild moments on the river-bank. It all seemed like part of a dream now. But he did not turn his head at all, and she realized that Durell rarely looked back into the past.

  Turning, she glanced at Paul. “Well, he’s gone.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  “In a way, yes. I am, I suppose.”

  “You got to like him very much, didn’t you, Eva?”

  She had an impulse to tell Paul that for a little while she had been in love with Durell. A few days ago she would have said so, to watch the pain flicker in his eyes and feel her superiority over his emotions. But that was not important now. Everything was different.

  She wet her lips and did not know how to say what had to be said to Paul. It was as if a presence had been
removed from between them, as if an intolerable weight was gone from her shoulders, and she was still not accustomed to the unusual sense of freedom from the guilt she had always carried before.

  Paul had explained some of it, with his new calm and sureness, on the long trip down-river on the boat. He showed her how her inheritance had brought back Emmett’s image with a destructive impact, making her feel as if she could not enjoy her stroke of luck as long as her memory of Emmett and her former life remained in suspenseful uncertainty.

  But that was all over. Nothing stood between them except her pride, which she had needed once to sustain herself, but which now only threatened to destroy what she wanted most.

  She walked slowly down the veranda, knowing Paul watched her. They were alone in the house, except for the servants who kept out of sight. Because of the heat, she wore only a white linen skirt and a thin silk blouse. She knew Paul’s eyes were on her body, with that strange, sad hunger he always showed when he looked at her. She had never truly tried to satisfy that hunger, she thought. Not the way he wanted, with a complete giving of herself, for his sake alone.

  “Sit down, Eva,” Paul said gently.

  “I’m sorry. Do I make you nervous? Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m quite all right.” He looked better than before he went into the hills. The days on the river boat had rested him, and his wound promised to heal quickly. He was still bandaged, but it did not incapacitate him. She paused before him. “Are you still thinking about Durell?” he asked. “We owe him more than we can ever repay.”

  “He won’t take anything from us. He’s not that sort.

  Anyway, I wasn’t thinking of him. I was thinking of you, and what—”

  “What to do about us, Eva?” he interrupted.

  She felt a sudden fear. He was too calm, apart from her in a remote way that made her unable to reach him. “What do you mean?”

  “What I say. I still love you, you know.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “ ‘But,’ ” he repeated. “There’s always that word between us.”

  She suddenly heard herself say: “Not any more, Paul.” “And what is that supposed to mean?”