Assignment - Amazon Queen

by Edward S. Aarons

  "It was noticed ten days ago."

  "Did anything happen then?"

  "No one heard, felt, or saw anything."

  "No trucks in the area, spraying the trees?"

  "The orchards were all sprayed by normal means, regular contracts. We've checked it all out. We thought that might be how it was done, sure, but a spray wouldn't account for the animals and the people. We're checking the tanks, the trucks, the drivers. Everything negative, so far."

  Durell said, "Did any planes go over, at that time?"

  "A few. Some light private planes. The usual jets from Washington to New York. We've covered the airports, big and small, everything from Kennedy to every pasture-type landing field for hundreds of miles. Every flight seems normal, those we've been able to check."

  "One of them couldn't have been normal. If it wasn't done with spray trucks, it had to be a plane. Here and abroad." Durell paused. The three men watched him. He met their stares with an impassive stare. "You're holding something back?"

  "It's foolish." Carboyd coughed and glared at Kendall. "About ten days ago, one light plane in the night circled George's Fields several times, as if it was in trouble. At least, that's what Old Annie said."

  "Old Annie?"

  "Mrs. Annie V. Carruthers. She's ninety-six. The George's Fields people think she's a witch. Or screwy. Always claimed she could talk to the animals, the bees, the birds."

  Durell said, "We should check her hearing.”

  "We have."

  "And?"

  "She has an extraordinary range for high notes." Carboyd walked to the Chippendale table and picked up several folders of massed documents, waggled them in his paw-like hand. "These are all affidavits and statements from the people who lived in George's Fields. They are all within normal parameters except for old Annie's. She says she heard, or felt, the vibrations of the wings of the Angel of Death."

  There was a pause. Durell said, "Was this the night the light plane circled over the area?"

  "We don't know. As I said, there are planes going over every night. We've put NASA's big computer to work, figuring permutations and combinations. If Old Annie actually heard or sensed stress vibrations that no one else got that night—"

  "Vibrations," Durell said. "Cell-crushing sounds too high to be detected, destroying only selected items such as reproductive cells in plants, animals, and men?"

  "We have chemists and biologists and whatnot on it.

  The consensus is that it's all impossible. It's being worked on. The Russians, Chinese, French—you name it—are all working on it, too. The upshot is zero, so far. But we've only just begun." Carboyd chewed angrily on his cigar. It had gone out again. His broad face looked redder than ever. McFee sat down, considering his heavy blackthorn stick as if he had never seen it before. Kevin Kendall looked quietly out the window. Carboyd said, "We're all up against it. I personally don't believe it. George's Fields is there, granted, but it's a hoax. Nobody would have the consummate gall—"

  "Chutzpah," Kendall said deliberately.

  "Don't give me your Yiddish idioms," Carboyd said angrily. "Why do you like to denigrate yourself, Kevin?"

  "It's a perfectly good word to express what you are trying to say, Homer."

  Carboyd ran fingers through his shock of thick white hair. "Do you see any humor in the problem, sir?"

  "If it's a hoax, as you suggest, it's funny in a rather grim, frightening way," Kendall said gently. "We live in a world of terror and violence. Our streets, our planes, our public meetings are targets for confused, anarchic men who use our modern technology to terrorize, assassinate, and gain ransoms for themselves or their causes. Now we're up against what may be an ultimate bluff. The entire world is at stake—the future of all life, making us the last generation on earth, if we are to believe the ultimatum we and all the other nations involved have recently received."

  "Do you believe it's an ultimatum or a hoax?" Carboyd snapped.

  Kendall said quietly, "George's Fields, and what happened to every living thing in that area, is only too real. So we have to pay the piper, for all our mistakes in the past." Kendall lifted an eyebrow to Durell. "We've tentatively labeled the thing the Zero Formula. Zero, for all future life on earth. You have to find it and buy it for us."

  "On one condition," Durell said.

  "Yes?"

  Carboyd started to say something in heat, and Durell added, "My condition is that the thing be destroyed. At once, without fail, without hesitation, equivocation, or compromise."

  Kevin Kendall nodded. "Sugar Cube wants it that way, too."

  Chapter Three

  There were techniques laid down for everything in K Section's procedures. Durell thought—even to having an ancient .48 Colt's Frontiersman rammed into your belly by an outrageous, fat, bearded old river rat who made a living on a rattletrap side-wheeler on the Amazon. You learned the procedures on the Maryland "Farm" and then you relearned them again, and yet again, every time you came home for rest, recreation, and reassignment.

  It was suddenly very hot in the crowded pilot house of the Duos Irmdos. It smelled of sweat and anger and fear. What had started back at George's Fields on the Chesapeake was not going to end like this, Durell thought. He felt the steamy dawn wind off the vast river blowing through the slanted windows in front of the big polished wheel. He caught Wells' eyes. The black man smiled and blinked twice.

  A strange look had come over Captain O'Hara's red face. Even the bristles of his unkempt beard seemed to quiver with hatred. It went beyond a normal outrage against Durell for prying into h's ship's safe. There was something personal in it, something vindictive, as if the fat man longed to pull the trigger of his revolver and send every bullet smashing into Durell's body. Something else touched the man's pale, rheumy eyes, and Durell recognized it as a flicker of fear, wonderment, puzzlement. But mostly fear. It seemed exaggerated for the situation.

  "Why?" O'Hara grated. "Why'd they send you, Samuel?"

  "Why not?" Durell spoke carefully against the man's explosive fear and anger. "It's my job, O'Hara."

  "But why you?"

  "I don't know. Should it have any significance?"

  "You're lying!" O'Hara shouted. He stepped back a bit in the crowded pilothouse. His slippered feet made no sound on the deck. His small eyes darted to Wells and the solemn Belmont and the swarthy-skinned, calm Agosto. He shook his head like a battered water buffalo. "No. They—he couldn't know you'd have to come on my boat. No. He couldn't guess it. Samuel, when you started out, did you know you were coming here?"

  "No."

  "But it couldn't be an accident." A dribble of saliva appeared ia the corner of O'Hara's mouth. His huge chest heaved as he breathed in gustily. The stink of stale beer and garlic was on his breath. "It's been a long time since I seen the Mississippi—seen your old grandpa Jonathan and his woman—"

  "My grandmother," Durell corrected quietly.

  "Right. A smart, pretty woman, she was. But—"

  Wells made his move. Manoel at the wheel had glanced down briefly at the vessel's compass and then out forward at the closing lights of Paramaguito. Wells' move was a lethal black fluidity, a strike so quick it fooled the eye. There was dull sound of flesh against bone as the black man hit Manoel in the nape of the neck. As the ship's mate slumped, eyes rolling. Wells caught the gun from the Brazilian's hand. O'Hara made the mistake of letting his eyes flicker at the brief noise. Durell chopped down at the fat man's gun with his left and drove his right fist low into the man's vast belly. It was like hitting the solidity of an unripe pumpkin. The man was tougher than he looked. The ak went out of O'Hara with a low grunt and he tried to bring up his big Colt again, and Durell hit him with two fingers in the throat, chopped at the side of his neck with his left, and O'Hara slammed back against the wheel. It should have knocked him cold; but it didn't. The man stared, his chest heaving, his eyes slitted with bright pain. Durell scooped up the big gun and held it pointed at the fat captain. Wells came around to s
teady the wheel, and O'Hara suddenly kicked at him—and Wells' gun went off.

  The report was like a vast explosion in the pre-dawn quiet of the paddlewheeler. One of the panes of glass in the pilothouse shattered.

  "Hold it," Durell snapped to Wells.

  Over the endless thump and clatter of the engine and paddlewheels, he heard a woman suddenly scream, astern in the crowded cabins. A man shouted dimly. Durell gestured to Manoel's body. "Did you kill him, Willie?"

  “No." Wells looked disgusted. “The fat pig almost surprised me, though."

  "Wake Manoel up. We'll need him. O'Hara?"

  The steamboat capitao grunted, ran fingers like sausages through his grubby beard, rubbed the back of his neck where Durell had chopped him. His pale eyes were malevolent. "Jonathan sent you, after all these years, huh?"

  "No. Not my grandfather. Let's have the next set of instructions, O'Hara. The ones in your safe. Mine and Mr. Stepanic's."

  "I can't do that. I sure can't—"

  "Hurry it up." Durell's voice was suddenly harsh with implied violence. "The ship is waking up. Belmont?"

  The cadaverous man hadn't moved through it all. His eyes were amused. He looked chilled in his black turtle-neck sweater, despite the humid heat. In his dark slacks and black crepe-soled shoes, Belmont was like a waiting shadow, always timing himself for the right move.

  "Whatever you say, Cajun," he murmured.

  O'Hara blustered. "They're in with my charts. Over there. But you won't make nothin' out of it. It's just orders for your next move, see? For Stepanic, too."

  "Who hired you. Captain?" Durell asked.

  "I can't tell you that. I don't know. You think I'm afraid you might kill me? That's nothing. I'm an old man. Forget it, don't ask me, because you'll never learn anything from me."

  Agosto said quietly, "There are ways, senhor."

  "You ain't got the time, sonny. We're landing in half an hour."

  "And if we stop the boat?" Durell suggested. "We can wait in the channel until your tongue loosens up, O'Hara."

  The fat man chuckled. Suddenly he was affability itself. "And have a riot aboard? You don't know the kind of crazy peons we're carrying. They'd get scared and drop chicken shit all over the place. They'd riot, tear the boat apart, afraid we were sinking or something."

  "Someone paid you to hold the instructions for us at Paramaguito. Who was it? A local man?"

  "I wouldn't know. I received the envelopes, I got five thousand new cruzeiros, and I accepted the job, no questions asked. I don't see five thousand every day."

  "He's lying," Agosto said calmly. "He is the first messenger we have been able to gtt our hands on, Senhor Cajun. The very first, at all the places we had to stop to get here. Always the messages were telephoned, or waiting for us. He knows what we must know."

  But what O'Hara said about the steamboat was true. The vessel was overcrowded, and the sound of the shot that had aroused the first woman had now caused a growing hubbub all through the ancient boat. It was like a swelling tide of terror, a growing clamour of shouts, crashes, women's screams, mingled with the contagious bleating of goats, the cackle of chickens, the barking of dogs. K they halted the boat now, the panic would rise to bedlam.

  Belmont came back from the chart rack with two manila envelopes. Durell snapped open the one with his name typed on it.

  My dear Mr. Durell and your colleagues— Your aides are really not necessary for the success of your mission. But you will proceed to the Hotel O Rei Filipe in Paramaguito. Please leave luggage and equipment aboard the vessel. Further instructions will follow. Obey Capitao O'Hara. I trust you have brought enough money. The bidding will be high. I assure you.

  S.

  Durell folded the envelope in his pocket and opened the instructions for Stepanic. The wording was identical. He scanned it twice, could detect no difference. The message was written on an old Portuguese typewriter with accent marks accompanying the letter type in odd places. The paper was a fine linen weave, tinted pale blue. It smelled slightly of mildew. When he sniffed it, he caught Wells' eye on him.

  "What now?"

  "We'll do as it says."

  "Anything about the money?"

  "Whoever 'S' is, he's anxious that we have enough."

  "I don't like it," Wells said. "He keeps us all m the dark. We don't know where we're heading."

  Durell looked at Captain O Hara, who had found a brown cigarette butt beside the wheel, and seemed only concerned with lighting it without setting his beard on fire.

  "Who is this 'S'?" he asked quietly.

  "I sure as hell don't know."

  "You read these messages, didn't you?"

  "They were sealed, weren't they? How could I? I ain't interested, anyway. I got paid to do a job, to deliver you to wherever you was told, and that's it." O'Hara cocked his bald head to one side. "I think we're gettin' company here."

  There were shouted questions from the deck below the pilothouse as a surge of passengers headed for the ladder. Durell nodded to Belmont to take over and stepped out through the narrow varnished door. There was a pearly radiance in the east, heralding the new dawn. A heavy mist clung to the vast reaches of the river. The air felt warm and wet. The big iron rocker arm that drove the splashing paddlewheelers groaned and clanked overhead. From the twin stacks came belches of foul-smelling black smoke, visible now against the lighter sky. Two Indian crewmen came up the rear ladder to the Texas deck and hesitated, talking to each other excitedly. They pointed, not at Durell, but to something or someone on the other side of the pilothouse. Durell moved around there fast—and slammed into Mr. Guerlan Stepanic.

  Durell was lucky. The Albanian was not alone. There were two Chinese, tall Manchurians in dark Western clothes, behind Stepanic. Durell's gun covered them before any could move. Stepanic sighed and spoke in a bored way to the two flat-faced Chinese.

  "This is unfortunate. Let it not be said that we acted in foolish haste, Po. The gentleman is Samuel Durell, the American imperialist spy, agent for capitalistic colonialism."

  "The same old cliches, Stepanic?" Durell asked. "Are your friends hatchetmen from the Black House?"

  "Really, now." Stepanic's English was flawless, touched with a British public school accent. He was a lean man who might have passed for the most genteel of diplomats, with his sleek hair and hawk's face, his elegant gray moustache, his immaculate grooming even here, on the Amazon, aboard a wheezing, rattletrap riverboat. But Guerlan Stepanic was head of the Gotosji, the assassination section of the Albanian intelligence command. "Really," Stepanic drawled, "did you think to steal my directives from poor O'Hara's safe? You've aroused the whole vessel to a tumult. Most clumsy of you, my dear Cajun."

  Durell did not lower his guard. Inside the pilot house, he could see Manoel at the wheel, conning the ship toward the channel to the dimming lights of Paramaguito. The sky was brighter, promising the sharp, sudden tropical dawn on the Amazon, although the mists on the river persisted. The air smelled of mud and decayed debris floating down from the countless tributaries of O Rio Mar.

  Stepanic said easily, "You went to much trouble to steal my instructions. Most unethical of you, Mr. Durell. However, no matter. I already know them."

  "You are not an authorized emissary to the auction," Durell said flatly. "Peking has a committee of its own, on the way. You're working for a rogue branch of the Black House. I trust you realize that. As a consequence, you're beyond the rules of this game."

  "Rules? There are no rules in this affair or any other that concern us, my dear Cajun. The only precept to follow is to win."

  "Did you kill Andy Weyer, in Belem?"

  "Tut-tut. You can prove nothing."

  There was a clamor on the ladders to the Texas deck. A flood of passengers, some in pajamas, some in the ubiquitous white jacket and ragged pants, straw hats, and naked feet, poured over the rail, yelling for the captain. The panic had spread from the single gunshot. Men, women, and children suddenly crowded and pushed around
the pilot house, undeterred by the angry shoves and shouts of the few crewmen who showed up.

  "Best put away your gun, Cajun," Stepanic repeated softly, "or these poor, ignorant peasants may mob you. Come, Mr. Po. You, too, Lin. We have nothing to fear."

  Durell did not try to stop them as the Albanian and his two grim, silent Chinese pushed through the yelling crowd. Belmont suddenly stood beside him. The tall, thin man was shivering. "I'll get him," Belmont said. "I swear I will."

  "You'll do only what I tell you," Durell said shortly.

  "Is he going to the same place we're headed for?"

  "Yes. Stepanic, and a lot of others. All of them out to cut each other's throats and reduce the competition—including our own. So let's be careful. Doubly careful, now." Durell looked at the loom of the approaching docks of Paramaguito. "I think we're close to the end now. And the closer we get, the tougher it will be to survive."

  Chapter Four

  "Yes, it is an invitation for murder," Kendall had said. The State Department man had flown with Durell to Geneva over a week ago. Kevin Kendall was calm, in obvious control of himself. "You have heard it all, Sam. What do you think?"

  "It's difficult to believe," Durell said.

  "You have a tremendous responsibility. An enormous burden of trust upon your shoulders. And you will be moving into possibly the worst danger of your life."

  "I don't mind that," Durell said. "I just can't figure out the ultimate purpose of the whole thing. I'm used to the danger. But I want to know this maniac's real aim."

  "It's an auction," Kevin Kendall said. "An offer to sell the Zero Formula to the highest bidder. There has never been anything like it before. We are up against a most astute mind, one that cannot be underrated. Once you get the letter of credit, you are on your own. It's a laboratory maze set up for poor little mice—and you're one of the specimens, Sam."

  "If I get my team, we'll have some sharp teeth."

  "You will have all you need," Kendall said softly, "and my personal blessings and prayers, whatever they're worth."

  There'd been no time wasted since the briefing at Prince John, on the Chesapeake. Everywhere in the world, in most of the major nations and in some of the lesser but more volatile countries, there had been an example to match what had happened at George's Fields. Two days after the demonstrations, the first messages arrived to the heads of the various states. They were ultimatums, blunt and uncompromising. The Zero Formula was briefly described as a new device designed to sterilize all growing life in any area to which it was applied. There was mockery and a deliberate vagueness in the description that set the country's top biologists, medical men, chemists, agronomists, and CBW people into a desperate, around-the-clock effort to analyze and synthesize the device. It was no use. The evidence was there, clearly demonstrated. At George's Fields, all growth had stopped. The human population was hospitalized and tested. Plant biologists had taken specimens of trees, grass, weeds, every flowering bush and shrub. All reproductive activity had stopped. The life in George's Fields continued, apparently toward its normal span. But no new generation could follow.