Assignment Peking

by Edward S. Aarons

  There was waving and shouting and everyone boarded the train again. In ten minutes they were through the Great Wall.

  There were two more halts because of flooding. Darkness fell, and a few lights shone in the countryside. Time was running out, Durell thought. At last the small station of Amyang appeared. The militia debarked, and the train was almost empty to the next village, where Durell and

  Jasmine got off on the small, sodden platform. The sta-tionhouse was the only light to be seen. He and Jasmine moved off into the muddy village street and waited beside a low wall for Shan to appear. The train rumbled off. Du-rell began to swear under his breath. Jasmine stood close to him, deep concern on her pale, tired face.

  "Where is Shan?" Her teeth chattered. "He's not bad, you know. He—he reminds me a bit of you, Sam."

  "So I noticed."

  "I—I'm all mixed up. I wish I'd never accepted this job "

  Durell straightened. "There he is."

  Looming out of the dark village street came a creaking bullock cart with a peasant in a wide conical straw hat and a poncho-like quilted cape. Beside him was Shan. The bullock lumbered to a halt and Shan waved them up on the tail gate. The rain beat at them, but Shan's teeth gleamed in a wide smile.

  "This man expected us. But he says it may be difficult to get to his field in time. There are floods, of course."

  "Won't it be too muddy for the Lotus plane to land?" Jasmine asked.

  "It's crushed rock, an old Japanese airstrip that everyone seems to have forgotten. But we've got to hurry."

  Durell said, "How did you get us through the Wall?"

  "You forget, Cajun, I'm a Black House agent. I have enough identity cards to prove anything. I showed the army man enough to convince him he would be shot as an enemy of the people if he didn't order the train on at once."

  The peasant was a hunched, anonymous blot of darkness behind his huge bullock. The village was quickly swallowed in the evening gloom. The station lights vanished behind them. Durell was silent, wondering about Shan's motives. It could all be a trap to capture one of the Lotus planes, he thought, with Shan deceiving them until the last moment. For a time, he considered using his militiaman's automatic and making Shan and the peasant his prisoners. But that might be awkward. In this desolate countryside he might never find the airstrip.

  The bullock plodded down the road at an agonizingly slow pace. The beast could not be hurried, and the Chinese farmer made no attempt to do so. The wind blew in their faces, pelting them with the cold rain.

  "What time is it?" Jasmine whispered.

  Shan said, "It is eighteen-thirty hours. Thirty minutes to the rendezvous—if the plane can make it."

  "Can we make it?" Jasmine asked.

  Shan shrugged. "We do the best we can."

  They passed a lighted farmhouse, then for a long time they lumbered on without a gleam of light anywhere on the horizon. The bullock kept to the country lane by habit; without the beast's guidance, they would have been lost in minutes. Time passed. They entered a stretch of dark woods, and the bullock halted, head lowered, horns swinging from side to side. The peasant spat and got down from his seat. Durell joined him. A tree had fallen across the road, massive enough to defy their efforts to move it, at first. For five precious minutes they struggled and heaved to remove the tangled growth. There was no way to get the cart around it through the thick brush. At last, panting and sweating despite the cold wind, Shan said, "We must walk the rest of the way."

  "How far?" Durell asked.

  "Two miles. Perhaps three."

  They left the peasant and his cart and struck off in the darkness. Shan had obtained a flashlight from the peasant, and they managed to keep to the road without getting lost in the woods. Leaves swirled and fell about their shoulders. There were two more windfalls from the storm, and then they came out of the woods into dark fields. A dim light shone to the right.

  "That way," Shan said.

  "You know this place, Shan?" Durell asked.

  "Yes, I landed here with the Americans who saved my life and shipped me back to help you. I promised them I would do what I could do for you, and that is all."

  "Do they expect you back?"

  "I do not know."

  "You'll be imprisoned as a spy," Durell said. "And if the Kuomintang get you on Taiwan, you'll be shot."

  "I must take that chance and do what I think is right. I understand our alliance is temporary. Do you not have a fable in your land, about a man without a country? In some ways, I have made myself an exile, too. I do not know what the future will bring me. Perhaps I may never be able to return to China. In that case—" Shan shrugged expressively and hunched his head as the wind pelted them. "I think we are here."

  A dilapidated farmhouse compound showed up through the darkness. No lights shone in the front windows. Durell put his arm around Jasmine as she sagged against the wall. Beyond the farmhouse was a dimly visible field that was lost in the blowing curtains of rain. Shan vanished inside for some minutes, then came back with a handful of flares, which he distributed to Durell and Jasmine. "I remember we had these to guide the Lotus pilot when I was brought here."

  They worked desperately against the fleeting minutes to light up the narrow strip. It was already time for the plane to appear, but there was no sound in the lowering sky except for the moan of the wind and the pelting rain. The red flares spat their brief glow into the night and seemed abnormally bright against the darkness. In a few minutes, the job was done and they gathered at the end of the strip nearest the farmhouse.

  A minute passed. Another. Shan kept looking at his watch. The rendezvous time had gone by. Durell watched the dark sky and waited. Once he thought he heard a faint drone, but then it faded. Visibility was limited to only a few hundred feet. One of the flares was used up and guttered out, and then another died a moment later.

  Jasmine clutched at his arm. "Listen!"

  He heard it at the same moment. It was the sound of an engine, with faint, echoing overtones. Puzzled, he turned to Shan. He understood what it was, too.

  "A truck is coming," Durell said,

  "Yes. And the plane, too."

  "A truck?" Jasmine asked.

  "Maybe police, or troops. Maybe the peasant was found and questioned. We shall see, Jasmine." Shan smiled and took her arm. "You must not be afraid, whatever happens."

  "I'm not, but—yes, I am. I probably don't belong in this business. Neither do you, Shan. You're not really like Durell, after all. Durell lets nothing stop him. Nothing can sway him. But you—you've risked everything in your life "

  The appearance of the plane broke into her words. It swooped and drifted over the field like a wide-winged dragonfly of monstrous proportions, its extraordinarily long wings vibrating as the pilot banked, vanished, and then came back with landing lights glowing like brilliant jeweled shafts through the teeming rain. Durell listened to the sound of the approaching truck at the same time. It was about a mile off. He turned as the Lotus pilot came in, touched down, bounced, touched again. The wind made the port wing come down and almost scrape the ground. The aircraft teetered, bounced once more, and then taxied in, flooding them with its landing beams. The lights went off in another moment, and the Lotus stopped. A hatch opened, and Durell took Jasmine's hand and they ran for it.

  Three minutes later, they lifted off the airfield as the approaching truck's headlights swept the strip and the farmhouse. Durell thought he heard the sound of frustrated gunfire, but he couldn't be sure. Turning, he saw that Shan was holding Jasmine in his arms.

  He went up forward to sit with the Chinese pilot.

  Nineteen

  The military airfield near taipei, on Taiwan, was the same that Durell had left, weeks before, for the flight to China. The evening air felt lush and tropical, after Peking's autumnal weather. They were met by three husky, polite young men in dark suits straight from Madison Avenue. Identity cards were flashed, indicating they were from K Section, but Durell did not recognize t
hem. It did not necessarily mean anything.

  "Our car is over there," the spokesman said. "I'm Fred Ford." He urged them across the warm, dusky field and looked curiously at Durell. "Which one of you is the real Shan?"

  Durell ignored the question. "Did McFee send you?"

  "Sure." Ford had a quick, easy grin. "Give your weapons to Joe, please."

  "And if we don't?"

  "This is a military airbase, sir. We have a dozen people spotted here. Would you care to try anything?"

  "Are we under arrest?" Durell asked coldly.

  "Just normal precautions, sir."

  Shan said, "You act as if we were plague bacilli out of China. We're tired, we've just completed a mission "

  "Are you Durell? Or are you Shan?"

  Shan smiled. "Five gets you one if you spot us."

  "He's the Cajun," said the man named Joe. "Durell was always a gambler."

  Ford looked annoyed under his polite fa?ade. "All right Do you give up your weapons or not?"

  Durell handed over his gun and knife, and Shan and Jasmine followed. Jasmine said, "I don't believe General McFee sent you. You're either from Haystead's E Branch or Lotus; but not from McFee."

  "It doesn't matter, Miss Jones. Come with us."

  They were spirited away into a big black car with swift, smooth precision. Another black sedan swung after them as the driver hit the highway into Taipei. Although the air was warm, the windows were kept shut, and the air-conditioning was not used. Durell and Shan were divided by the man named Joe; Jasmine was assigned to the jump seat. Her knees pressed into Shan's thigh, and they looked at each other with silent intimacy. Durell felt a sense of loss as he watched them, and he said to Shan quietly, "Do you recognize any of these men?"

  Shan replied in Mandarin. "They were the people who fished me out of the river and dropped me near Peking to find you."

  Joe grinned. "So you're Shan?"

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not. We have learned to change places. Durell is Shan; Shan is Durell."

  "No need to get snotty about it," Joe grumbled. "We're all on the same side."

  "Are we?" Durell asked.

  Traffic in Taipei was its usual jumble of rush-hour congestion. Joe kept his gun on his knees between them. They had to stop twice for tangles of carts and buses near the gardens on Yuan Hill, outside the main city. Finally they swung into Chungking North Road, passed a movie house and swarms of pedicabs, and heard the clamorous, uninhibited uproar of a free city. They turned into a palm-lined boulevard leading to Chungshan bridge, heading for Durell's former hotel, the Ma Tsu. Durell asked about it, and Joe said, "Yes, the Sea Goddess Hotel. Your old suite has been kept there for you."

  "I have to report to Haystead," Durell said.

  "Later, sir."

  "I have my orders. If you interfere "

  "I'm sorry. We have orders, too. You have to have a complete debriefing first."

  "By whom?"

  "We can't say yet. You'll know at the Ma Tsu."

  "Then we are in custody?" Shan asked.

  "You said it, not I."

  Nothing was according to the book, Durell thought. Uneasiness grew in him like a dark storm. He did not know these men. They were obviously Americans, from a security agency, but there were always these wheels within wheels, lack of coordination and senseless rivalry between one apparatus and another. He did not think they were from K Section, as they claimed. The Lotus plane that had returned them came from Zebra project, which was under Haystead's E Branch. Haystead had shown no love for McFee. It was as if part of the storm surrounding Durell was meant to strike at K Section and destroy it. He thought about this, and suddenly felt as if he'd caught a loose thread in the knots he had been trying to untangle. He looked at Shan as the car slowed in the traffic near the Chungshan bridge, and an unspoken agreement was made between them in that one look.

  He felt as if a crisis were at hand. Either he lived, with Shan, or they would both be dead soon. Shan had put it correctly. There were elements in the intelligence community who regarded them as plague germs, freshly out of mainland China. These elements, suspicious and mistrustful, would sooner silence them than risk the danger of letting them continue.

  The big car was halted by a pedicab accident that tangled up traffic near the bridge access. The second car that trailed them was separated by hooting, jingling buses and bicycles.

  "Shan?" he said quietly.

  Shan nodded. The man named Joe who sat between them was good, but not good enough. Durell chopped at his gun, while Shan slashed at Joe's throat with the edge of his palm. Joe grunted and drew in a long, strangled breath, then bent forward with blood and spittle in his mouth. Durell grabbed the gun. At the same moment, the two in front started to turn in alarm. They were much too late. They were almost amateurs, Durell thought.

  "Freeze," he said. "Hands off the wheel, Ford. Foot on the brake. Unlock the doors." He had noted that the rear doors had no handles. "Now!" he said sharply, as Ford hesitated.

  "Listen, Shan—or Durell—whichever you are "

  "Shut up."

  Shan reached forward carefully and took their weapons and retrieved their own. There were impatient horns and bicycle bells jingling all around them on the bridge approach. The botanical gardens stretched in dusky, tropical green to the right. The pedicab that had been struck by a bus was straightened up now, but there was a distant sound of ambulance sirens hooting across the bridge. All to the good, Durell thought grimly.

  "Jasmine?" She hadn't moved on the jump seat. "We'll soon know if these men work for McFee. Come with us."

  The driver, with Durell's gun in the nape of his neck, unlocked the car doors. Shan and Jasmine got out. Durell followed routine procedure in backing out of the sedan. He saw men running through the stalled traffic from the car that had followed them in the rear and decided not to waste any more time.

  "Let's go."

  They ran through the traffic for the park, dodging pedestrians and gaining the paths between tall oleanders and palms. Dusk had fallen, but the street lamps weren't on yet. Durell caught Jasmine's hand and pulled her along. Several times he looked back and thought he saw the men in the dark gray suits running after them, shouting. Then they went out of sight. He turned right, ducked around a bandstand pavilion, turned left, saw the glimmer of Chinese characters in a neon sign, and headed that way. In a few moments they were in a swarm of pedestrian traffic, having circled back to cross the Chungshan bridge. The traffic jam had eased, although the whirling lights of the ambulance still shone behind them.

  Shan slowed to a walk. "I am sorry. My injuries "

  "We're all right now," Durell said.

  In minutes they were lost in the small, tangled streets across the bridge. A restaurant advertising Cantonese cooking shone lights at them from a narrow alley. They luckily found a table in the crowded place, and Durell took a seat from which he could watch the entrance.

  Jasmine looked exhausted. "I don't understand. Are we just going to let them hunt us? I thought we'd be safe when we got here, and all we had to do was report to McFee and Haystead."

  "The job isn't done," Durell said grimly. "Unless we find some answers, they'll never let us live."

  "But who are 'they'?" she demanded.

  "I wish I knew. How do I reach McFee, Jasmine?"

  She hesitated, then said, "I have a telephone number.

  It was to be used when I got back, but only if " She paused and looked at his duplicate, Shan. "Only if I had to warn McFee."

  "Warn him of what?"

  "If I—if I thought you were convinced he was the traitor, the top man in the Sentinels."

  "Do you think I believe that?"

  "I—I don't know."

  "Give me the number, Jasmine."

  When she told it to him, he asked the harassed Chinese restaurant proprietor for the phone, borrowed some coins from the man, and called the number. The phone rang five or six times. He looked across the crowded restaurant and saw Jasmine talking
rapidly and earnestly to Shan. He wished he knew what she was saying. A sense of desperate urgency filled him as the phone went unanswered. He was about to hang up when it clicked.

  "Give me McFee," he said. "This is Durell."

  He recognized the little man's voice. "Welcome back to never-never land, Cajun."

  "It's no time for jokes, General. I'm hot."

  "Of course."

  "I mean three men saying they were from your office, from K Section, were taking Shan and Jasmine and me for a ride."

  "Yes, I understand."

  "You don't seem bothered by it, sir."

  "I assume you can take care of yourself, Samuel."

  "I need help, sir."

  "Where did these men say they were taking you?"

  "To the Ma Tsu Hotel, where I was before."

  "Then go there," McFee said crisply. "That's all I can suggest."

  "Listen, is Dierdre still ?"

  The telephone clicked and went dead.

  Shan asked quietly, "Do you often put your head in the tiger's mouth like this, Cajun?"

  "Sometimes it's the only way to see if he means to bite your head off."

  "I fear we are surrounded by tigers now."

  It was half an hour later, and the Sea Goddess Hotel was crowded with military uniforms and tourists jamming the bar for cocktails. Quite a few disapproving glances met them because of their disheveled clothing. Jasmine offered to get the key from the clerk's desk, and Durell and Shan, aware of the startled looks greeting their identical appearance, waited outside the lobby. The doorman started to ask their business, then saw something in Du-rell's eyes that made him wander off, excusing himself. A group of high-ranking Air Force officers got out of taxi-cabs, talking too loudly. One was drunk and was supported by two laughing colonels. There was no sign of the Madison Avenue types who had tried to snatch them at the airport.