She shuddered again. “Did you notice his eyes? So strange, so dark, like gateways into an evil too awful to contemplate.”
“A physiological quirk,” Durell said.
She turned angrily. “You Americans are such optimists. Such—Pollyannas. You believe this is the best of all possible worlds. But is it so? What about my son George? Where is he? Did he die in the street, back there? Did he crack his head open, or did they just slaughter him there?” Durell thought back to their poya weekend at Negombo, those hours of peaceful idyll beside the aching blue of the Indian Ocean. They had shared love generously, without restraint. Now Aspara was far from him, alien. She had been bred a Sinhala, and in her blood there probably ran the ancient lines of Sinhalese kings and princesses. He understood how she felt about her new country, struggling for security, fighting against the ancient rivalries between the peoples who composed Sri Lanka. This day and this life were only motes in the eye of time. Their efforts today might mean nothing in the long pageant of destructive history.
“Dear Sam? . . .”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry for what has happened between us.”
“You’re sorry about Negombo?”
“No, no.” She turned from the window. “Never that, dear Sam. But I have seen this violent side of you; I have seen your strength and singleness of purpose. I wonder if Negombo was simply your way of searching for Ira.”
“We haven’t seen Sanderson yet,” he reminded her. “Aren’t you concerned for him, as well as for George?” “Ira was always a foolish man. Not like you. Not like you at all. I no longer feel anything for him, except as anj decent person should be concerned about another. As you are not, poor Sam.”
“I’m alone,” he said. “I have my job to do.”
“Alone with your job, yes. With your business, as you call it.”
“My business is to stop people like Dr. Mouquerana Sinn from spreading his gospel in the world. I don’t believe in anarchism or violence. I dislike violence, myself.” “But you use it.”
“Can you stop a charging tiger with a prayer and £ pious wish?” he asked.
She did not reply.
A pearly light made the mountains seem blacker beneath their summits. Footsteps sounded outside the cell. Aspara took Durell’s hand, as if she waited for an executioner, Her fingers were cold, and they trembled.
The massive figure of Mouquerana Sinn filled the doorway. Light flooded in behind him from electric lanterns He had changed from the costume of an oriental despot to Western clothing, a dark blue suit and immaculate white shirt with a flowing black necktie. His head, with a dark shock of hair, seemed even smaller than before, on his mountainous shoulders.
His thin voice piped like a toad. “Ah. You hold hands, Your belief in the romantic is a useful tool for me. I came to inform you that my demands for the ransom of Mr. Ira Sanderson have been met. A jet plane quite adequate to my needs is now waiting at Kasmaiana Airport, south o Colombo. The ransom money, half a million in American dollars, is safely aboard. My servant, the Cobra’s Bow, has checked everything. It is all according to plan.” The thin high giggle followed the fat man’s words. “Of course, neither the plane nor the money interests me. It is not enough. Are you surprised?”
“No,” said Durell.
Aspara said quickly, “I wish to ask about my son, George. We had to abandon him on the way, and we have heard—”
“Young George is quite safe. A useful lad, when not in his cup of drugs. You will see him shortly.”
“Drugs? Are you certain?”
Sinn ignored her. “Mr. Durell, have you given more consideration to my offer?”
“Not for very long.”
“Ah. It takes time to reconcile yourself to the fact that you are a man without a country, hunted everywhere by everyone. You cannot hope to survive long, eh? Have you considered, with some small gratitude, that I have in effect rescued you from certain death?”
Durell stared into the man’s murky eyes. A sense of red lights gleamed in their depths. He looked at the armed guards. His own weapon had been taken from him long ago. He spoke quietly, “What can you gain by your scheme? Aren’t you going to collect the plane and the money?”
“The PFM can have the money. I do not despise wealth; it gives one power; but it is not enough for my purpose. Now that I am expected to deliver Sanderson at the airport, I will leave Ceylon with my trophy by another route.”
“What trophy?” Aspara asked sharply.
“Why, Madame Aspara, the fabled Buddha Stone, of course.”
She sucked in her breath. “It does not exist. It has never existed. It is a myth.”
“Not at all. Your former husband, Ira, found it. The mere discovery almost caused him to collapse with excitement. You shall see it soon. And with it, my dear woman, I can command much more than any amount of money could buy.”
“What about Sanderson?” Durell asked. “Will you give him up to the authorities?”
“Since I will not collect the money, I shall keep him. Do you think that unethical? Remember, I am a messenger. I do not abide by your foolish rules of goodness and morality. If one is once freed of such conditioning, the freedom is more heady than the world’s best wine. You cannot imagine it yet, sir. But soon you will, you will.”
“I’d like to see it now. And Ira, too.”
“Naturally. We have time, perhaps an hour, before we leave this place. I will be expected at Kasmaiana Airport; and naturally, I shall use another route to escape Ceylon with the stone. Do not be eager to know our destination.” There was a sudden chill in Sinn’s words, a breath of evil, torment, and pain, waiting in the thin words. “It is there that I shall convince you to join me—and be convinced of your sincerity—or you will have to be eliminated.”
Sanderson’s room was a cell like their own, but it contained a rough camp cot, a long table of two planks, a chair, a portable battery radio from which issued a strange medley of Moslem music from the station up north at Jaffna. The radio was going full blast when Durell followed Aspara in, ushered along by an armed PFM guard.
“Yes? I’m busy, you know. I really do not like to be disturbed.”
Ira Sanderson was very tall, very thin, so that his angular body, with his sharp nose supporting crooked, steel-rimmed glasses, looked somewhat like a praying mantis. He wore an old gray sweater with worn leather elbow patches, and baggy checked slacks stuffed into ankle boots. Behind his round glasses, his eyes were vague. He needed a shave. There was a fading yellow bruise on his high forehead. His hair was pale yellow, thinning, shot with gray.
“Ira,” Aspara said gently.
“Eh? Oh, good Lord. It’s you, Aspara? What in heaven’s name are you doing here? And who is this man?” “We’ve been looking for you, trying to rescue you.”
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense. I’m perfectly fine.”
Durell said, “Are you here willingly?”
“What? Oh, well. Not exactly. But I’m quite content, you see. It’s rather a relief—” Sanderson’s grin showed long teeth—“not to worry about diplomatic chores for a while. I’m really having a marvelous time, just marvelous. I’m quitting the Foreign Service, of course. What I’m going to do now is concentrate on these old digs here, write several papers on the development of Buddhism in Lanka, and form an exhibit for the Ceylonese government, the museum in Colombo, you know. It’s all quite exciting.”
Durell wondered how the man could detach himself so far from reality. Don’t you realize you’ve been kidnapped?”
“Technically, I suppose. It’s all a lot of silliness. Be forgotten by tomorrow. Aspara, you look just marvelous.” “Ira, are you in good health?” the woman asked.
“Kind of you to inquire. Yes, of course. I’ve been treated very well. Left alone to pursue my work. Here, look at this.” Sanderson waved to the mass of broken shards on his plank table. “This cave-temple may well be one of the first devalas dedicated from a pantheon of primitive gods to the worship of
Buddha, following his visit here.”
“You found the Buddha Stone?” Durell asked quietly. The tall, thin man grinned, poked up his glasses, turned his sharp nose back to Durell. “Ah, you have heard of it, my dear chap? Marvelous. Absolutely earthshaking. It will create a far greater revolution than any yet sustained by civilization. Its end is not predictable. As a matter of fact, Dr. Sinn is not far off the mark, you know. He sounds absolutely balmy at times, talking about the world in the grip of incarnate evil, but what I’ve so far translated of Buddha’s remarks—very difficult, rudimentary—I’ve only gotten pieces of the fractured script, a form of Ghodanese, very ancient—”
“Where is it?” Durell asked.
“The Buddha Stone? Oh, Dr. Sinn has it safely crated. I worked from photographs after he arrived here. But it is quite safe. Nothing will harm it.”
Aspara was deeply troubled. “Ira, listen to me. Please. You know my beliefs. Is the stone authentic?”
“Oh, yes, my dear. By the way, has George arrived yet?”
“We’re expecting him,” Durell said. “Are you?”
“Sinn promised to bring him on.” Sanderson sighed and looked at his table. “Quite glad you’re here, old fellow. Did you know you look a bit like that Russian chap,
what’s his name, Kubischev? Don’t like him a bit. Rather sullen. And he cares nothing, absolutely nothing about the stone.”
Aspara spoke desperately. “Ira, have you truly considered the consequences of making all this public? Have you considered the fact that Buddha is only recorded, as far as we know, in—”
“Makes it quite interesting, doesn’t it? As if one suddenly discovered in Israel some scripts written by Christ, eh? And perhaps material contrary to what we’ve known from the gospels. Oh, my,” Sanderson said. He drew a deep breath into his skinny chest. “I really must get back to my work now.”
“Ira,” Aspara insisted, “we haven’t seen each other for over two years, you know.”
The man’s manner changed as he stared at her with cool gray eyes. “Yes, and that’s all over now, is it not?” Really, we both agreed we were totally incompatible, and the divorce was the best thing hr the world for us both. I really regret your arrival here. Let us not be emotional, eh? I have my work to do.”
Sanderson turned back to his plank table. Aspara trembled again as she touched Durell’s arm. Her face was very pale.
“Come,” she said.
sixteen
“So you see why I could not live with that man,” Aspara said, a little later.
“He seems harmless.”
“He could upset the whole world, with his harmlessness.”
“Sooner or later, someone would have found the Buddha Stone,” Durell said. “It just fell to Ira. You have to face it. If the find is publicized, everyone will have to face it.”
“I cannot.”
“Mouquerana Sinn will see to it, Aspara. It’s his big weapon, far more important to him than hundreds of millions in money. With it, he can buy support and run an invisible empire for the power he wants.”
She turned an anguished face toward him. “Can you not stop him, Sam?”
“I’m going to try,” he said.
The morning light slid down the slopes of the hills in a smooth, silent flood, touching the valley bottom and the slim, twisting road with touches of green and blue and lilac. They stood on the mountain top under the watchful eyes of the PFM, who held their weapons at the ready. These were picked men, alert, intelligent, powerfully built. There were two Toyota scout cars waiting on the rudimentary trail they had reached by marching up the slope from the empty tank. Dr. Sinn was waiting for them there, and Durell wondered how the man had managed his weight on the climb.
Beside the scout cars was a large truck with slat sides and a canvas top and a sign in English, Sinhala, and Arabic indicating kerosene and kitchen tinware for sale. It reminded Durell of an old-time Western gypsy peddler’s wagon, with its banging, clanging utensils hanging on the sides. Aspara and Sanderson were herded into the rattletrap truck. Kubischev seemed to avoid getting close to the colonel, but at the last moment there was a low exchange of Russian between the two men.
Skoll’s face flushed angrily. His massive fist came up as he bellowed, “Traitor! Fool!” and Skoll hit the man on the jaw. As Kubischev reeled back against the tailgate, Skoll kicked him in the kneecap, jumped forward, and swung a massive blow at the other’s chest, just below the heart. It should have killed Kubischev, but the man turned as he slid downward, deflecting it, although his scream was instantaneous. Even Durell heard the thin crack of a bone.
Before Skoll could finish the job, he was attacked by two of the PFM, who came at him with their guns.
Dr. Sinn’s voice was shrill over the shouting. “Do not kill him! Understand? He must be kept alive!”
They nodded and swung their gun butts against Skoll’s bald head. The Siberian struggled brutally, careless of the blows battering him. He managed to get another kick at Kubsichev’s prone figure before they dragged him, raging, backward.
“I cannot tolerate the swine!” Skoll shouted. “To sell out for money to a monster! To betray me and the people of Socialist Russia! To turn into a running dog for this—”
The guards had dragged Skoll toward Mouquerana Sinn. Skoll finished his words by spitting full into the fat man’s face. One of the guards lost patience, and his rifle came down and Skoll sank into a heap at Sinn’s feet, his face and head a mass of blood.
Dr. Sinn said calmly, “Tie him up. Throw him in the truck. He will be useful later—after he pays the price of his folly. Is Kubischev alive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Badly hurt?”
“A cracked rib, sir,” said the guard.
“Attend to him. Tell him he has disappointed' me.” “Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Durell?”
Durell came closer to the ponderous man, whose strange black eyes seemed to swallow the light of dawn. “Mr. Durell, have you considered my offer further?” “Not really.”
“I want you to work for me. I am in the business of collecting and selling the world’s most important commodity today. Information. Data. Nations depend on it, history develops from it, power comes to the possessor of such facts. Sir, you have a high sense of survival. I presume to use this and bring you into my service. I need men like you and Skoll. Data is currency in this bomb-threatened world. I will collect it through you and others like you. A man might not defect or betray his country for mere money, that is true; but there are those who will do so for power, if they are historically ambitious. To make a mark upon history is a form of immortality—something we all yearn for. What is more, you will finally be awakened to the true state of affairs on this planet of ours, which is under the Dark One’s sway. When you recognize and accept this and know that I am his true messenger, then you will feel a freedom of mind and spirit as you have never known before. You will live with it and profit from it.” “No chance,” Durell said.
“Pray that I accept you, sir, or you are a dead man. The other side of the coin is riches and power.”
“I don’t dream of money or power,” Durell said.
The strange dark eyes in that round, malignant face grew wider and darker. Dr. Sinn started to raise an arm but was interrupted by the sudden jabbering of one of the guards. The man pointed down the valley behind them.
Far below, toiling across the broken dam that had once held back the waters of the tank, was the perverse figure of Willie Wells.
The black man had obtained another rifle. Even at this distance, his figure represented a desperate, determined will, a dogged and implacable aim to do what he meant to do.
“Give me a rifle,” Sinn snapped.
“Let him be,” Durell said. “He can’t follow us in these trucks.”
Sinn’s heavy black brows lifted. “Ah. You are sentimental about killing him?”
“He’s only doing his job.”
“His job is to kill yo
u.”
“I know that. But he can’t do anything just now.”
“He is a nuisance. He has come this far on your trail. He may come farther.”
Sinn took the heavy hunting rifle that one of his men gave him and raised it to his ponderous shoulders. He moved his tiny feet a little, spreading his massive weight, and took careful aim through the scope. The little figure of Willie Wells came on, unaware of his imminent death. “No,” Durell said again.
The fat man paid no attention. At the last moment, as Sinn’s knuckle tightened on the trigger, Durell tore loose from the grip of his guards and got his right arm free. With a sudden gesture, just as the shot was fired, he knocked up the barrel of the heavy rifle and the bullet slammed harmlessly toward the dawning sun.
The shot echoed back and forth from the silent mountains. The small figure on the dam in the valley paused. Everything about Wells indicated exhaustion and surprise. He lifted his rifle as he futilely scanned the hilltops for the source of the shot.
Sinn did not explode with rage. His piping chuckle touched Durell briefly. “Such loyalty, my dear Durell, deserves to be rewarded. And so you shall be. You wish Wells to live? So be it. He may be useful too.” He signaled to two of his men. “Go get that American. Bring him along after us. As for you, Durell, you touched me. You interfered with my wishes. I must teach you that such behavior will never be tolerated by Mosquerana Sinn.”
His heavy brows lifted to someone behind him. Durell never saw die vicious blow that suddenly smashed down on the back of his head like a trip-hammer. He was driven to his knees. The last thing he heard was Sinn’s thin laughter as he went out.
Everything rocked and heaved and lifted and fell, rolling from right to left and back again. His left arm ached, and he knew he had been given a sedative to prolong his sleep. His head, surprisingly, did not ache too badly. Some sort of medication for that too, he thought grudgingly.
He lay in a crude bunk, in a tiny cabin that stank of curry and stale rice and urine. He listened to the creaking, squeaking strains of wood, the rush of water, and knew he was on a boat at sea. The low, persistent beat of a diesel engine made the bunk vibrate. He felt a moment’s nausea, but it passed. He tried to sit up.
Assignment - Ceylon Page 11