Assignment- Silver Scorpion

by Edward S. Aarons

  "I'm not the General's wife anymore. And the General hasn't operated the FKP for some time now. So where are those two men?"

  "I told you, I don't know, and I can't guess."

  She hugged herself, as if to repress a shudder. "I don't like their being around here somewhere. They give me the horrors, y'know? They're assassins, did you know that? Professionals, I mean. Among certain minor Natanga tribes, they train youngsters from childhood to be killers. Something like they did in ancient Sparta. I read that in a book one time. It's a hell of a profession, don't you think?"

  "Are you afraid they are after you?"

  "Even you believe they're loyal to the General, right? And the General knows I'm here in Adam's bed. So he let Yutigaffa and his sidekick in. Otherwise, do you think you'd really have gotten through the siege lines the way you did?"

  "I'm not sure, but I think you're worried over something that doesn't exist," Durell said.

  "You'd better tell me where they are."

  "I don't know," Durell said again.

  He didn't think she was really interested in the two FKP men. He didn't think she would be afraid of any man, as a matter of fact. She had been brought up in a hard school, in a world where the thought of simple, essential survival was always basic and uppermost. A world in which men showed her their weak and indulgent sides most often. In some ways, however, she was less dangerous than Irene. Irene seemed too naive and childish to be taken seriously; Mickey was overtly dangerous, so you were forewarned about her. He stood still, waiting. He didn't look at the little revolver again. Through the barred gun-port which now served as a window, he noted that the daylight was fading. The smells of cooking rice and curry, as well as sewage, drifted in through the barred opening. He watched the thin woman light a cigarette. She didn't offer him one.

  She said, "If I had my way, I'd get rid of you, Mr. Durell. Like fast, like right now. But Adam thinks you might be useful later on, as a sort of hostage, y'know? Can you give me an idea of how you might be useful to us right now?"

  "Not really."

  "You're bloody well right, not really. You'll never let go of your job, will you? You'll do everything you can to stop Irene and me, right? So why not make a deal? How much do you want?"

  "I can't bargain with you. It's no deal."

  "Money talks to everybody in this world, so don't put me on. And there's plenty for everybody here. So how much will it cost for you to forget everything and send a nice, cozy report to Washington that the funds were blown up, burned up, destroyed by the shelling. That's a logical thing to report, isn't it? It could happen that way?"

  "Yes, it might."

  Something moved in her pale blue eyes. "Then it is deal? You'll throw in with us, for a reasonable share?"

  "No," Durell said. "I can't do it, because I know the money has not been destroyed and because I know that you and the Colonel and Willie Wells have it and intend to steal it; and that you and your sister might well double-cross both of those men whom you've used to make away with every cent this poor country has begged and borrowed to pull itself up out of the swamp."

  She spoke with a sneer. "So you're an honest man? You're worried about bloody old Boganda? Bloody old, effing Unity land?"

  "Yes," he said.

  "I don't believe you," she snapped.

  He said nothing. He just stood there. He waited. She smoked her cigarette in quick, angry drags. She paced the stone floor between him and the bed, between him and the little nickel-plated gun. He knew she trembled with the desire to kill him. From her point of view it would be the simplest solution. The two men she had engaged were more practical or more cautious, aware of the weight and implacability of K Section's determination to avenge him if he were murdered and the money were stolen. Mickey and Irene didn't care about that, any more than they cared about the potential results of their fleecing of this new, struggling nation. They were determined to take Boganda to the cleaners, he thought. They were ruthless, scheming, dangerous women, and they would permit nothing to stop them. Least of all, he thought grimly, his own life.

  "Suppose," Mickey said, stopping to stare at him, touching the wide leather belt that kept up her hip-huggers, "suppose I let you in for a one fifth share. Do you have any idea of what that might amount to?"

  "Something in the neighborhood of sixty million in negotiable cash," Durell said.

  "Bloody right," she snapped. "Do you ever expect to enjoy that much money in your lifetime?"

  "The grave is a lonely place," Durell said. "You can't spend a penny there."

  "Oh, we'll make it. Irene and I will make it." She paused, then paced again, whirling to stare at him, her small teeth gleaming momentarily between her wet, parted lips. "You want more? You want me, maybe? Irene?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Oh, you bastard."

  "You can't buy me, Mickey. Understand that."

  "If I can't buy you, there are other things that might persuade you. That girl, that Miss Finch, is crazy about you. I guessed you jollied her a few times, hey? How would you like it if I handed her over to some of our Telek fighters? They'd love a big, juicy American girl like Miss Finch, pal. They'd kill each other to get in line for a gang bang, right? There wouldn't be much left of your Miss Finch when they were through."

  "She's not my Miss Finch," Durell said quietly.

  "I've seen her look at you. She has the hots for you. You're kind of responsible for her, aren't you? You've got such a great conscience, worrying about poor old Boganda left penniless, I'll bet you feel chivalrous about your Miss Finch too. You wouldn't let me give her to the Teleks."

  "Yes," Durell said. "I would."

  Mickey stopped pacing and stared, her cigarette forgotten, her lips parted again. It was very quiet in the room. Her pale eyes swept Durell's craggy face, touched the trace of silver in his black hair, inspected and judged every muscle of his body, came back to his face, met his dark blue eyes that looked almost black now, and then she drew a long, sibilant breath.

  "I believe you. A bastard. A dedicated spook. Just like Willie Wells said." She turned her back to Durell for a moment, moving toward the side of the rumpled, stained bed. "I don't care what Adam thinks. Or Willie Wells. I think we'll all be a lot better off if you're dead."

  He saw her reach for the little gun. It was not a trap now, not a ploy to make him move, to give her an excuse to murder him. She was going to kill him anyway. He had no choice, after all.

  She was quick, like a darting snake, and she had her hand on the gun before he reached her. Durell was faster. He slammed the edge of his palm down hard on her wrist, heard her suck in a hiss of pained air, caught her finger on the trigger guard and squeezed it there, preventing her from firing a warning shot. The woman was strong and slippery, her body hot with the passion of her anger. She twisted and tried to knee him, her eyes gone flat and hard; he slid aside, still holding to the gun, and brought her hand down hard on the edge of the crate that served as a makeshift table. The gun came loose. When he ducked down for it, she tried to kick him in the face, missed, clawed at his eyes, managed to rake a deep furrow down his cheek, and then opened her mouth to scream.

  He hit her. Just the smallest beginning of a cry for help came from her before her eyes rolled and she sagged down against him, one breast pulled free from the shirt as she slipped heavily in his arms. He didn't trust her. He let her go down and stepped back, holding the little gun, thinking it might be worthless, more of a hazard than a help. He wasn't sure if she were faking it or not. He watched her breathing, saw the quick, shallow rhythm of her breasts rising and falling, then he knelt and flipped back an eyelid. There would be a bruise on her jaw when she awoke. Satisfied, he straightened and went to the door, holding the little revolver loosely in his fingers.

  The six o'clock hourly barrage of mortars began. This time the targets were closer, around the central plaza of the Getoba. The ground shook with the concussions. Dust sifted down from the old bricks in the vaulted ceiling. He tried
the door carefully. The corridor outside seemed to be deserted. There was a desk against the opposite wall, but no one happened to be sitting at it. He stepped outside, closing the plank door behind him, and turned left toward a flight of stone stairs with iron railings. There were dim electric bulbs in the ceiling, with exposed wires, and they flickered on and off as the shells exploded half a mile away. Probably the mercenary officers had rigged up a generator for their own power. He chose to go up the stairs and took them two and three at a time to the next upward level. Part of the fort had long ago crumbled away to ruins, the victim of time and erosion in the jungle climate. The central tower and inner courtyard where Portuguese militia once mustered and paraded was already a patch of shadows and gloom. Boxes and crates of supplies and ammunition were scattered about, piled high against the vine-grown brick walls of the old colonial fortress. Through an arched casement window Durell glimpsed the main gate beyond a heap of debris. Heavy tire tracks were visible in the deepening dusk. A kind of ramp was partly evident about fifty feet in from the barred main gate.

  Sentries paced the walls that encircled the area, which must have been at least three acres in extent. A few trees grew in the central courtyard, some travelers' palms and an old banyan tree and a shiny-green sapodilla with a heavy, gnarled trunk. Another flight of rusted iron steps led Durell quickly toward the top ramparts. From here he could see the river, blood-red in the lowering sunlight. Below the wall he saw that there had been another ramp built for two trucks that were partly hidden under an overhang on the west side. Old cannon emplacements had been removed to make room for the six-wheelers. He climbed higher, hoping that if he were spotted, the sentries would assume he was one of the white mercenary officers. The central tower of the fort gave him a view over most of the Getoba, with its narrow alleys and minarets and markets. The damage from the week of mortar shelling was extensive, worse than he had estimated. Some fires burned near the Chinese quarter, and he wondered what had happened to Pearl Lu and the old man who ran the shop. Then he saw that a wide river barge had been moored under the shelter of the walls, tied to the heavy stone embankment there. The barge was motorized and held two trucks.

  He knew he must be looking at the stolen three hundred million. It was all there, in the trucks.

  The trucks were waiting to be driven onto the barge and then slipped downstream beyond the reach of General Watsube's troops. He remembered a chart of Boganda shown to him by Tom Adams in Chad, and he knew there was a major railhead only ten miles down the river. There was no military activity in that direction. If the two sisters - could get the trucks on the parallel highway there, they would have a clear four-hour run to the border, where sympathy for the Teleks would make them welcome. He had no doubt that Mickey and Irene had already arranged for free passage of the trucks to whatever destination they sought. Perhaps they wouldn't even have to go that far. If they could have a plane waiting for them, an old DC-3 parked on a jungle landing strip, they would have it made. They could be up and away and free, with three hundred million stripped from Boganda's feeble economy.

  He held the little nickel-plated revolver loosely and wished he had a better weapon. So far there had been no alarm. But Mickey would come to any moment, and then the fort would be turned upside-down in a search for him. s And Mickey would demand his immediate execution.

  The sun was enormous, blood red, in the west, behind a long barrier of clouds that sent strange beams of color arching into the air overhead. The river was the color of steel. A flight of pink flamingos made a long sedate line halfway to the opposite bank. Something large splashed and rippled in the water close inshore. He looked over the edge of the wall. Another banyan tree grew close to the outer barricade, not too far for him to jump. He could get out that way. Every instinct told him to go. But then he thought of Finch. He wished he could have her with him right now. They could make good their escape together. He didn't owe her anything, he told himself. In the business you took your chances and stood alone. If you were abandoned, you accepted it as part of the job. You did not expect your partners to sacrifice anything for you. Finch o knew all this. He had to go. He stood there, measuring the distance from the top of the wall to the nearest solid branch of the banyan tree, and decided to jump.

  From below, in the courtyard, someone shouted. The figures of running men seemed small from this height. At the same moment he heard the familiar thudding beat of a helicopter approaching from the south, from the airfield a few miles outside the main city of Boganda. It was the first aircraft he had seen since his arrival on the last flight from Chad. It was a gun-ship type, a Sikorksy, modified at some military base so that its skids carried several men on a small platform. A distant popping of rifle fire began, following the flight of the machine over the walls of the Getoba. Durell crouched against the brick parapet of the tower, out of sight of most possible observers. He heard the rattle of a machinegun, and then another joined the distant rifle shots. The chopper came on like some prehistoric monster, inexorably approaching on a line of flight that would carry it directly over the fort. He wondered if there were bombs aboard. A few hundred-pounders would wreak havoc here, blasting the brick walls into death-dealing sprays of chips that would devastate the defenders. He couldn't see any bombs under the chopper's belly. There were no markings on the aircraft. For a moment he wondered if it was all part of Mickey's and Irene's thievery scheme. But the firing directed against the ship indicated that it wasn't.

  Men poured out of the main building of the fort. He thought he saw Mickey and Irene, screaming something at the lean, running figure of Colonel Adam Chance. Willie Wells was with the colonel and several white, uniformed mercenaries. Their alarm was not over his escape. They were shocked by the appearance of air power from General Watsube, who was not supposed to have a single aircraft at his command.

  The thud and beat of the chopper came closer. Something like pandemonium existed in the courtyard as men ran to their weapons and posts. Durell told himself to jump. Finch could take care of herself. He didn't owe her anything. He told himself to get out of there.

  Instead, he turned and ran for the tower steps as the helicopter churned its way directly overhead.

  He knew what he had to do now.

  The firing came from all over the fort, aimed at the chopper. So far no reply came from the aircraft. Durell swung toward the door leading down from the tower roof. , As he opened it, two men burst upward, too quickly for him to retreat. Their faces were familiar. They were the mysteriously missing FKP men, Yutigaffa and Kantijji. He wasn't sure who was the most surprised. At the same time something struck him on the back of the head. Stunned, he fell forward into the darkness of the iron stairway. He felt a hot wetness spread down the back of his neck. He heard.' Yutigaffa exclaim, and the man scrambled to catch him as, he fell. His partner, Kantijji, drew back. And Durell fell, going down the iron stairs, into a deep and complete darkness.

  Chapter 20

  "ARE You all right, Sam??

  ?Yes.?

  ?No, I mean, are you really all right??

  ?I don't know.?

  ?Can you see me??

  ?I see you," Durell said. "Why don't you have any clothes on, Finch??

  ?Oh, dear. I guess you are conscious, truly.?

  ?You look great.?

  ?You don't have any clothes on either, Sam.?

  ?And how do I look??

  ?Awful." Georgette continued to cluck and fuss with a makeshift bandage around his head. They were back in the same cell, from which he had been taken by Major Wells. He listened but heard nothing in the fort except the distant sound of a generator pumping away somewhere. A faint electric light seeped like yellow mist through the tiny barred window in the plank door of the cell. Tie wondered how long he had been out. His head ached, and there was something wrong with his left leg, the one he had injured some years ago on another assignment. He had probably twisted it when he fell unconscious down the stairwell, between Yutigaffa and Kantijji. He tried movi
ng his arms. They ached. His head pounded when he turned to watch Georgette. She looked truly magnificent in her nudity. He had not imagined that she was that much of a woman. Her body was smoothly tanned all over, her legs were long and straight and firm, her stomach was flat.

  "Did you see Captain Yutigaffa?" he asked.

  "No, I didn't."

  "Or Kantijji?"

  "I didn't know they were here."

  He said, "They're hiding out somewhere in the fort for reasons of their own. Why are we naked?"

  Finch made a face. "It was Mickey Maitland's funny idea. You lost a lot of blood, Sam. I think you were grazed by a stray bullet, in the back of your head. Your eyes still don't look right."

  He stared at her breasts. "I can see, all right."

  "Oh, shut up about me. It's awkward enough, isn't it, without your making remarks. It's embarrassing. That's why the bitch did it, I guess. She's going to have you shot, Sam."

  "I suppose so."

  "Did you find the money?" she asked.