Assignment Golden Girl

by Edward S. Aarons

  He saw Colonel Yi's tall figure among the other uniformed men at the armored cars. He looked for Salduva. She stood a little behind Yi, her tall figure unmistakable. There was a yellow glow in the sky as the moon started to rise. The wind blew stronger, and Durell smelled smoke. The yellow light had a reddish tinge to it.

  "Let's go," Atimboku said angrily.

  Durell walked toward the armored cars. The men who waited for him were murmuring. Their heads turned to the left behind the line of vehicles. The air smelled distinctly of smoke, of fire. A red line of light suddenly burst over the gentle slope behind the enemy cars. Long streamers of flame lifted into the twilight air. A shouting came from the waiting enemy. They were only fiifty yards away. Durell took a few more steps through the tall, dry grass. The ground was rough underfoot. Atimboku was a little to his left and half a pace behind him. Suddenly the whole horizon was in flames. Gouts of fire lifted high in the dark air and lit the scene hellishly. The black beetle silhouettes of the armored cars were in the path of the flames. There was another sound woven through the crackling of the grass fire. It was a deep chant, a ululating cry.

  There was a sudden explosion from the armored car at the farthest end of the line. The vehicle burst apart like an egg, shattered in a great blast of flame and noise. Durell threw himself down in the dry, tall grass. Pieces of steel whirred and whined over his head. More flames lit up the scene. Men tumbled from the exploded vehicle like burned rag dolls. There was screaming. The little knot of officers, including Yi, who waited for his approach turned aside. There was shooting. Some men were running back to their vehicles. There was the sound of deep throated diesel engines starting up. One of the cars lurched forward, its gun swiveled and turned to the rear away from the train. The car moved a few feet and suddenly blew apart like its companion. Acrid smoke filled the dark air. The line of grass flames came closer, urged by the wind. Ahead of it were the dark figures of running men. A dozen, a hundred. Durell felt Atimboku tug at his leg. Atimboku had thrown himself to the ground, too.

  "What's happening?"

  "Oyashi came back," Durell said. He wanted to laugh. He tasted acid in his throat.

  "What?"

  "The Ngamis are here."

  "Jesus," Atimboku said. "They'll slit our throats. They're wild people."

  "Shut up."

  "Listen, Cajun, I'm sorry—"

  "Follow me. He'll kill your sister."

  "What?"

  "Colonel Yi. He's got Salduva. You gave her to him. He'll kiU her."

  "But—"

  Durell got up and ran toward the left wing of the three armored cars still intact. He thought he saw Colonel Yi run that way, too, dragging Salduva. He had Salduva by the hand and was pulling her along. She resisted but had to run stumbling with the Chinese. The heat of the grass fire reached Durell like the blast of an open furnace. The flames spouted high into the sky. The figures of hundreds of warriors were black dancers exulting against the red curtain of fire. They came on, overwhelming the stuttering enemy vehicles. A few machine guns stitched their bullets into the pattern of the night. The black men fell and were devoured by the flames that followed them.

  The others kept coming over the rise where the enemy cars wre stalled and ran over them like a wave. There were dull explosions. Durell felt the loom of the cliff and the gorge nearby. He saw Colonel Yi and Salduva vanish momentarily behind a pattern of huge boulders. He ran after them. Atimboku was close at his heels. He heard screaming, the sound of killing behind him. The chanting of the Ngami fighters never ended. Durell suddenly fell into empty space. There was a wide, deep ditch here, a dry stream bed filled with smooth rocks. It could not have been seen from the train. It ran down the depression in the veld between the fighting at the armored cars and the train itself. A long tongue of burning grass stopped there, ate itself up. Durell's knee hurt. He stood up, and his left leg would not hold him, and he fell again.

  "What is it?" Atimboku asked.

  "Nothing."

  He forced himself up again. His knee flamed with pain. Atimboku offered to help, but he pushed the man's hand away. Anger made his mouth taste of acid. He climbed out of the rocky ditch and looked ahead. Colonel Yi was in the jumble of rocks above the little gorge. He still dragged Sally with him. The Chinese halted on a small ledge and looked back. In the red glare of the grass fire the man's face looked demoniacal with rage. Sally tried to pull away from him and he struck her back handed, and she fell, slipped partly from the ledge. Yi pulled her back to safety. Yi had an automatic rifle in one of his hands. He dragged Sally along, climbing higher.

  "Come on," Durell muttered.

  "Listen, let him go. The Ngamis beat him. We're safe!" Atimboku's voice exulted. "Look, I had to do what I did. I had no choice. You understand, don't you?"

  "No," said Durell.

  "Man, let that Chinese go! Forget it!"

  "He has Sally. She's your sister."

  "I don't care. Let him keep her. Let him—"

  "Kill her?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "But that's what you'd like. I won't let him have her."

  "Cajun, you're crazy. Look what's going on back there! Those cars are wrecked. They can't stop us now. Get back to the train!"

  "No," Durell said.

  He climbed on after Yi. The grass fire had reached the ditch between the armored cars and the train and was halted there, dying out. Most of the Ngamis had crossed the ditch and were running like a black flood toward the train. In the dying light of the flames Durell tried to spot Oyashi. He could not see the little Japanese anywhere. The light was too confused.

  He clawed his way higher among the jumbled rocks. He could hear Yi and Sally above him, but he could not see them now. Gravel showered down on him, stinging his face. His knee was almost useless. Each time he bent it the pain was excruciating. He was bathed in sweat. When he doubled over sliding onto the ledge where he had last seen the Chinese and Sally, he felt the pressure of his .38 in his waistband cutting into his belly. Atimboku in his original excitement had forgotten to disarm him. He rolled over on his back, pulled the gun free, and pointed it at the Pakuru.

  Atimboku's eyes went wide.

  "What—?"

  "Help me up," Durell said.

  Atimboku extended an uncertain hand. Durell grabbed it, pulled himself to his feet. His heart hammered in his chest. He kept most of his weight on his right leg.

  "Are you going to kill me, man?" Atimboku whispered.

  "Just do as I say."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Keep climbing."

  Durell heard grating sounds above them. The red glow of the grass fire was dying, but it touched the rocks and cliffs with a bloody light. They had climbed some distance above the level of the plain already. All of the armored

  cars had been destroyed. There was a mob of dark shadows around the stalled train. There was no more gunfire.

  More gravel showered down on them.

  Durell stood still. The ledge led upward against the sheer face of a thirty-foot bulge of rock. They were near the gorge where the train had passed. The ledge ended in a series of natural steps going up, and there seemed to be a small plateau up there, but he couldn't guess the size of it.

  "Sam?"

  It was Sally's call.

  "Is that you, Sam?"

  He made no answer. Atimboku's eyes flashed in the darkness. There were sounds of clankings and shouts from the Ngamis swarming around the train. They seemed to be gathered about the derailed hopper car. Durell started up the series of natural stone rises in the ledge, pushing Atimboku ahead of him. The young Pakuru stumbled, almost fell. Durell did not offer to help him. Atimboku scrambled savagely to his feet, his face angry and shocked.

  "For God's sake, Sam—don't come up!" came Sally's sudden voice. "He's waiting—"

  Her voice was cut off by the sound of a savage slap. There was a yelp of pain, then momentary silence.

  ''Durell, I will kill her!" came Co
lonel Yi's voice.

  Durell halted halfway up the ledge. There was only ten feet to go to the top. He knew the Chinese was waiting. The moment his head appeared above the bluff "Yl would blow it off. He signaled to Atimboku, who shook his head negatively in defeat. Durell retreated down to the flat area of the ledge, then moved silently along it in the opposite direction. Atimboku did not follow. He did not care. What he had to do was between Colonel Yi and himself. What he had to do was for a shriveled, little old woman who kept a snake over her treasure chest, who called herself the Queen Elephant of Pakuru. He followed the ledge. It grew narrower, and he had to press his shoulders against the rock wall in order to squeeze

  forward. He prayed the ledge would not end in a blind spot. Looking down at the plain, he saw a small group of men trotting this way. They seemed incredibly distant, of no use to him at all. They represented a danger in fact. He did not want anything to trigger the Chinese into killing Sally.

  He turned his head and looked back. A bulge of rock blocked his view of Atimboku. He did not know where Atimboku was or what he was doing. He thought he heard a murmur of voices above and behind him. A few stones clattered down to the ledge a dozen feet behind him.

  "Durell! Come up! We can make a deal!"

  He could not tell where Colonel Yi's voice came from. The ledge cornered, and he found himself standing over the gorge where the railroad tracks ran. The rails seemed very far below. He hadn't realized he had climbed so far. The fields and the stalled train were out of sight here. He dragged his left leg after him on the next step, found a niche in the rock wall, and rested, panting. The pain in his knee had gone a bit numb now. His leg was stiff, almost useless. He bent his head backward and saw he was resting in a high crevice, a crack in the face of the volcanic basalt that went up to the top of the little plateau above. He was sweating although a cool wind now touched his face. The moon was up, and "he could see what he was doing with reasonable clarity. There were enough handholds and toeholds to climb up. He put his gun in his waistband and reached up for a grip, used his right leg for leverage, and hauled himself up a few inches.

  Sally screamed.

  He heard someone laugh. It did not sound like Colonel Yi. It had to be Atimboku. He reached up again and twisted his body and tried to rest his weight on his left leg. No good. The pain was too much. His leg trembled and started to give, and he lunged upward, got another grip, and hung there with his hands, still three feet from the top. His right leg swung out on its own, then came back. He bent at the waist, braced his right leg against the rock, braced his shoulders against the opposite side of the basalt chimney. A small stone came loose and rattled down into the gorge below. The sound seemed very loud. He looked up. The stars reeled in a slow, revolving dance against the black sky, and he looked away quickly. '

  He tried once more. There was a small grip, just at fingertip reach. If he could get his hand on it, he could pull himself up. He reached for it. His fingers grazed the rough underside of the projection. He was two inches short. He stretched once more. His body sweated. He was soaking wet. The wind felt cold tugging at his shirt. He missed. He saw the stars spin and then used hip and thigh and shoulder and jumped for the handhold. His right hand caught it, slipped, then held. He hung like that in the narrow chimney, his legs swinging, dangling. For several long seconds he was helpless to make another move. Then he swung, caught the rock outcropping with his other hand. His shoulders ached. He got his right leg up, his knee braced against a comer of the crevice, and levered himself a few more inches. And a bit more. His head came up over the top of the bluff.

  He saw feet and boots and the tall lean figure of Colonel Yi standing there waiting. Yi had a gun pointed down at him. The Chinese was smiling. The muzzle of his gun seemed enormous. The black hole held the universe in its round darkness. He could see across the little plateau to where Sally struggled in Atimboku's grip. She was trying to break free to run toward him. Atimboku held her tightly. He had come up the other side, apparently whispering his name and allying himself with the Chinese.

  "Goodbye, Mr. Durell."

  Durell lunged upward, grabbed the muzzle of the gun, tried to hang on to it. He felt the shock of explosion as the gun went off. He heard Colonel Yi cry out and saw the tall Chinese stumble forward, pulled by DurelFs weight hanging on the gun barrel. The gun went off again. The jolt of the explosions seemed to tear Durell's arm off. He could not hold on. He saw Yi's face loom over him hard and cruel, the eyes wide and obsidian with no expression in them. He saw a tiny scar on the man's cheek, he saw the man's teeth between skinned-back lips, and then he fell backward and down and down . . .

  Twenty-Seven

  THE INDIAN Ocean sparkled like quicksilver im-der a benign sun and a gentle wind. The beach was long and curving, lined with palm trees, a soft yellow under the afternoon light. There were brightly colored umbrellas scattered about on the sand, and seagulls rode the slant of the wind, their cries muted against the rhythmic boom of the long white combers that rolled in from the east.

  Durell came out of the hotel leaning on a cane, limping. There was the whistle of a jet coming into the airport a mile away from the Portuguese colonial seacoast town. Parrots squawked in protest in a large bamboo cage hung at the far end of the hotel veranda. It was lunch-time, and there were several guests: a remote English couple, the woman pale and thin, the man ruddy with a military moustache; two small, dark Portuguese colonial ofl&cers seated at a table alone, talking over dark red glasses of port. And a German party of tourists, six in all, speaking loudly, complaining over the bacalao being served at their round table. Durell did not see Sally.

  He searched the beach below the veranda and considered going down the wooden steps to the beach, but his leg still felt uncertain, and his twisted shoulder, still black and blue after four days in the efficient hospital building in the seacoast town, still ached and throbbed. Under his slacks his knee was tightly bandaged.

  He heard the jet engines reverse, rumbUng from two miles away at the airport. He sighed and poured a tiny cup of thick Portuguese coffee from the silver pot on the buffet table. He wished it were the chicory flavored Louisiana brand on which he had been brought up.

  Oyashi came out of the swinging hotel doors and joined him at the veranda balustrade. He looked fit and well again. The Ngamis and Nakurus had handled him as tenderly as a baby.

  "Yo, Cajun."

  "You're looking fine. Lev."

  "More than I can say for you, Cajun. A few quick shots of insulin at the hospital brought me back in balance. Dr. Paramedo says I was close enough to a coma, after all. Now I'm just about ready to get back to work at Nakuru and teach the Ngamis a few more agricultural tricks."

  "I'm glad for you, Lev," Durell said.

  "Well, we're all lucky to be alive."

  "I didn't mean that. You're out of it."

  "The business?"

  "Yes. My business. You got free of it. You're free to do whatever you like to do. Nobody watching you. Nobody ready to beat your head in or shove a gun down your throat."

  Oyashi looked sad. "Don't envy me, Cajun. I still miss it. I don't know why. It takes a certain type, a curious breed of man. I've still got it up here—" he tapped the side of his head "—but not in the body, not any more. Nobody would want me or trust me anyway. I couldn't trust my self. You saw what was happening to me on the train."

  "You saved us all," Durell said.

  "The Ngami people saved us. They really didn't have to help. They normally would have stayed clear."

  "You got to them. You brought them back."

  Oyashi shrugged. "Just luck."

  "Maybe General McFee can use you. I'll get a message through if you like, by way of Redwing down in Cape Town."

  "You don't think Harvey Gladstone will carry on?"

  "No," Durell said. His tone was short.

  "Well, if you think—" Oyashi began to smile.

  "It's just a matter of having a man on hand to let us know what happens now
in Pakuru."

  Oyashi grinned broadly, his round face illuminated. "Soimds good. I'd appreciate it, Cajun. This time, I'm going back into the bush with a battery-operated refrigerator and plenty of insulin."

  Durell turned as the hotel doors opened again. A taxi had drawn up in the oyster-shell driveway in front of the Portuguese hotel. The seagulls kept playing tag with the slanted wind over the beach. He wondered if one of the figures under the bright umbrellas down there was Salduva.

  Gloria Gladstone came out of the swinging hotel doors. She wore a new pink knit pants suit molded to her tall figure; she must have bought it in the smart French shops in town. Her shoes were of Spanish leather, and she had obtained a set of matching luggage filled with the other new purchases she had made. Durell crossed the veranda toward her. His leg still hurt. The Portuguese doctor in the hospital had demanded that he remain there another week, but he had refused. He had been lucky after he fell from the cliff. Colonel Yi had gone spinning out into space, but Durell had slipped down the chimney, his body scraping and jolting against the sides of the narrow crevice.

  "Mrs. Gladstone," Durell said.

  "Oh, are we formal again?" she asked coolly.

  "Gloria then."

  She smiled. There was no humor in the movement of her pale lipstick. "I'm off for civiUzation," she said. "I've got a taxi waiting. Wasn't that the plane I heard coming in?"

  "Yes. Pan American Flight Two. It will get you home in twenty-four hours. Back to Manhattan."

  She bit her lip. "I suppose you're glad to get rid of me. I suppose you all are."

  "Not at all. Have you seen Harvey?"

  She shrugged. "I guess you could say that. I've seen him. But I haven't talked with him."

  "I hear he's going to make it."

  "Oh, sure. But he won't speak to me. I guess it's all over. I wish someone would talk to him—tell him something nice about me, for instance. I couldn't help what happened with Atimboku. I know I used to ask for it in the past but that one time—no." She grimaced. "So that's the one time the scales drop from poor Harvey's eyes."

  "I'll speak to him for you if you like," said Durell. He watched the swoop of the gulls through his sunglasses. He couldn't identify any of the people sunning themselves on the beach. The air smelled of fresh ozone and the broad, glittering sea. He said, "Gloria, you always wanted to go back to Manhattan. But Harvey's place is here. It's the last frontier, so to speak, for a railroad man like him. He has no other place to go. No other life. No future."