Assignment - Karachi

by Edward S. Aarons

  “Selling international secrets?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Rudi played the instrument—the Red Oboe—but you called the tune, Hans?”

  “Yes. Always.”

  “And you expect the Chinese to pay you for the location of this mineral deposit?”

  “The arrangement is for the equivalent of one hundred thousand English pounds sterling, in Swiss francs, deposited in Geneva. Rudi splits his share with me. He deposits my part of it in a numbered account there.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” Hans asked. “You know what I must do?” “You’ve got to kill me,” Durell said. “And everyone else down there. You must join the Pakhustis and the Chinese to make sure Alessa comes out alive, however. But none of the others. You can’t quite trust the Chinese commander, though. If you’re in the cave at the end, they might wipe you out, too. After all, you’ve kept your secret well. Rudi doesn’t even know you’re his boss. You might have a hard time saving yourself.”

  “It will work out satisfactorily,” Hans said slowly.

  “And how will Alessa feel about the way you’ve used her foolish brother? You’ve made him a gambler and a woman-chaser, encouraged his extravagances to get him into debt, wrecked his life to make him obey orders. Not a pretty picture for her, when she learns about it.”

  “She will never know. And she will forget about you, too, once you are out of the way.”

  Durell looked at the other’s gun. “You’ve arranged with the Chinese patrol to take over this section of the border, is that it? No report will be made about the nickel ore, so nothing more will be done by the Pakistan Government. There may be some international exchanges about border violations in the next few months, a few top-level conferences, an appearance of negotiation, some yielding by the Chinese, a grant of autonomy to the puppet Emir of Mirandhabad—and Red China gets the nickel mine.”

  “These things,” Hans said, “are for others to settle. My job is done. I arranged for Ernst Bergmann’s questioning in Rawalpindi, but I needed Rudi to get the charts from the old man. Ernst was too stubborn for me to handle. As for Jane King, that was Rudi’s personal foolishness—but I have always had to cope with Rudi’s silly problems. His usefulness compensated for the trouble he gave me.” Hans laughed thickly. “It takes a fool to idealize the foolish image of one’s Uncle Franz.”

  The sky was lighter behind the peaks to the east, and the dim loom of the mountains showed the paling, starlit sky. The dawn wind blew icily across the huge ledge where they stood. Hans’ gun still dangled from the man’s fingers. Durell’s gun was in an inside pocket, out of reach.

  “If you shoot me,” Durell said, “they’ll hear it in the cave. They’ll know what you’ve done.”

  “None will survive. What will it matter?”

  “Alessa will know, because you plan to save her.” Hans stared. “You are right. I don’t need the gun. If you fell back into the fissure it will satisfy her that your death was accidental.”

  “I won’t oblige you by jumping,” Durell said.

  Hans unsheathed the ice axe with a swift movement. The sharp blade on one side of the head, the pointed pick on the other, gleamed with murderous brilliance in the strange light. “Back up, please.”

  Durell stood still. The edge of the cliff was not far behind him. Then he took a step backward. The cold wind cut at his face. The big man stood with his back to the east, his dark hulk outlined against the pallor of the sky. He looked implacable, armed with gun and axe, beyond argument.

  Behind him, something moved against the pale scree of the little plateau. Durell did not turn his eyes from Hans’ face.

  “Another step, please,” Hans said quietly.

  Durell backed up again. He turned his head as if to see where the edge of the cliff lay at his heels; but he used the opportunity to look beyond Hans at the movement of shadows against the glimmering rock. One. Two. And a third. Three men, moving stealthily toward Hans Steicher. He could not identify them. They were soundless phantoms, their detail obscured by their mountain clothes. But a faint gleam of light caught on a rifle barrel and shone briefly.

  “You can’t win, Hans,” Durell said. “They’ll kill you, too.”

  “Why should they? It is only a business arrangement.”

  “They may not do business your way in this wilderness.”

  “We have talked enough.” A thin edge of impatience rasped in Hans’ rumbling voice. “Two or three more steps, please.”

  Durell deliberately looked beyond Hans and called in Urdu, “Don’t shoot him, sergeant! We want him alive! Don’t make any noise here!”

  Hans started to turn, checked himself, grunted impatiently—and Durell hit him with a thrusting charge that closed the gap between them in an instant. Hans was fast. His axe came up, slashing at Durell’s head. Durell ducked, felt the shaft strike his shoulder, slammed into Hans’ belly to force him back a step, drove the axe handle back and down with his free hand. Hans dropped his gun, grabbed him in a bear hug. Durell drove an elbow into the other’s face, felt the nose bone crush and splinter. It did not stop Hans. Hans swept him literally from his feet, carrying him toward the edge of the precipice. For a shocked instant, Durell knew the big man had the strength to throw him into the dark fissure below. He struck again with his free arm, felt Hans cough and strangle. Blood was running from the man’s crushed nose, into his mouth and throat. It was all that saved Durell for the moment. His own lungs were squeezed beyond endurance by the other’s grip. The sky turned black. There was a roaring in his ears. Through the wild sound of his body’s panic, he heard a quick scrape of booted feet on the rock. Hans Steicher made a thin, agonized sound. His body jerked, his grip slackened. Durell tore loose, spun away, and fell to his knees. The earth yielded, slid away under him, and he grabbed at Hans’ leg to pull himself back from the edge of the cliff.

  Hans tried to kick free and came down on top of him. For a moment, the impact drove Durell closer to the precipice’s edge. Hans got a massive hand under his jaw and drove his head back until Durell heard the bones of his neck crack. He summoned his last strength from somewhere to heave upward and free himself. Hans, too, staggered to his feet. The edge of the crevice was only a step or two from where they stood, facing each other.

  Hans rushed at him.

  Durell flung himself aside, felt the big man’s jarring impact, and went spinning away. Hans kept going.

  There was a moment when Durell saw the glitter of a knife in the other’s back, and in that instant of wonderment saw the shapes of other men carefully circling toward him— Hans went over the cliff.

  There came a deep outcry, a bellow of rage and denial as Steicher fell. And then there was silence again.

  chapter eighteen

  DURELL turned to the three men who kept him pinned to the edge of the cliff. In the dawn’s light, he thought one looked familiar. It was Sergeant Zalmadar, the Pathan. He remembered that K’Ayub had sent Zalmadar and others on their back trail to hunt for Rudi and Sarah. Only these three had survived. He looked at them and could read nothing in their dark, savage faces.

  Zalmader spoke in his precise English. “You are not wounded, Mr. Durell?”

  “No.”

  “The others are down there, where you come from?” “Yes.” Durell answered the Pathan’s unspoken question. “The colonel is all right. They’re trapped down there, do you understand?”

  Zalmadar nodded. “There are some Chinese troops now with the Pakhustis outside the cave mouth. You were trying to out-flank them?”

  “Yes.” Durell looked at the dark pit behind him “I couldn’t have gotten out without Steicher.”

  “He was a brave man. I put the knife in him to help you. I had to throw it. We heard you climbing, for some time, from up here. And we heard everything you said together.” “Then you know he was a traitor.”

  “Yes.”

  Durell wondered what was happening in the cave. What had Alessa thought when Hans came
crashing down, after all the agonized hours of waiting? Their tension down there must be enormous.

  He turned back to Zalmadar. “We need help. Your friends are down there waiting for a rope. Will you give me a hand?”

  “That is why we returned,” the Pathan nodded. “We followed the man, Rudi von Buhlen, and the American lady until they met with the Emir’s troops, then we trailed them to this place. We worked our way up the cliff to seek another entrance to the cave. And then we saw you.”

  They lowered Durell’s rope rapidly to the bottom. A faint pink aura in the east heralded a clear day. For several moments there was no reaction from the darkness below. Then the rope was tugged twice, rapidly, and Durell signalled to Zalmadar, who made the line fast and held it as someone began a slow, laborious climb to the summit to join them.

  It was Colonel K’Ayub. He greeted Sergeant Zalmadar with surprise and relief, listened to Durell’s explanation of what had happened, and spoke with rapid, crisp efficiency.

  “The woman has not stopped her tears since Hans’ body came down. We found Zalmadar’s knife in him. It explained most of it to me.”

  From then on, matters were out of Durell’s hands. K’Ayub took charge of lifting his men out of the pit, one by one, as the light grew stronger and the distant loom of the mountains grew more distinct. A peak to the east suddenly shone with rosy brillance as the rising sun touched its summit.

  Durell turned away and sat down to watch the rapidly growing numbers of Pakistan troopers on the cliff top. He felt drained of further resources. The long climb up the rock wall with Hans had been harrowing enough, and his eyes felt as if someone had thrown gravel into them. Every muscle of his body ached. In any case, he thought, he could take no part in the fighting that was imminent. He had to remain neutral now. It was up to K’Ayub and his men, and their mood was dangerous.

  Alessa was pulled up toward the end of the maneuver. She walked directly to where Durell sat and seemed to collapse beside him, as if her legs could no longer support her. In the pale light, her face looked haunted. For several moments she was silent, then she said quietly. “Did you have to do it, Sam? Must you take everyone from me? First Rudi, and now Hans?”

  “Hans tried to kill me.”

  She started to speak, then nodded slowly. “Yes, he was always very close to Rudi. He taught Rudi to climb in the Alps, and was often with him on the Riviera. He was a strange man. He—I think he frightened me, and that is why I could never—I mean, when he said he loved me, something in him seemed repellent. I could never understand it.”

  “I’m sorry, Alessa.”

  “No, it is better this way, to know the truth.” She looked sharply at him. “You are concerned for Sarah now, are you not?”

  “We’ll know about her in a few minutes, I think.”

  “Rudi will kill her, if he can. She could be a witness against him. I have no illusions about Rudi now. He killed Jane, and Uncle Ernst. He must have had orders from Hans about Ernst.”

  “Yes.”

  She turned her face away and began to cry silently. He did not touch her or speak to her.

  K’Ayub was quick and efficient with his military problem. In the growing light, he went forward to negotiate the downward slope at the end of the fissure. Durell went with him, crawling until they could see the enemy encampment. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel, Durell thought.

  The Chinese were camped apart from the Emir’s men, their small tents militarily precise. They were apparently secure in feeling their quarry was hopelessly bottled up. Only a few pickets were awake, and some cooks, who were starting breakfast fires. Two machine-gun crews dozed at their posts where their weapons covered the cave entrance.

  Durell borrowed field glasses to study the Chinese. There were about forty in the patrol, short and stocky men who looked Manchurian. Their arms were modern. He swept the glasses to consider the Emir’s large, gaudy tent, with its pennant flapping in the dawn breeze. A sense of confidence and security seemed to prevail among the sleeping enemy.

  He saw no sign of Rudi or Sarah, and spoke to K’Ayub about it. The colonel nodded. “They will be in the Emir’s tent—unless the Chinese have already removed them. I shall give my men orders to be careful of their fire when we begin.”

  “I’m going down with you,” Durell said.

  The colonel frowned. “It is not your battle now. It may provoke complications for you, if you take part in this.”

  “I must be sure Sarah is all right,” Durell insisted.

  K’Ayub said nothing, his silence giving assent. In the end, K’Ayub’s men worked with clock-like precision. Their light automatic rifles were trained on the Chinese and Pakhutis camped below. A squad of troopers, left in the cave, had orders to wait until the day brightened and the enemy began to stir. Durell lay flat behind a boulder, watching. His body ached with fatigue from the long march, the hours of climbing with Hans. But there was still this last job to be done.

  Rudi came out of the Emir’s tent and went over to one of the cooks’ fires. A Chinese met him and they talked briefly. Durell focused the lenses more sharply. The Chinese was flat-faced, grim; his gestures were quick and angry. Rudi pointed to the Emir’s tent, but when the Chinese officer started there, Rudi held him back. There was a moment’s pause, and then the Chinese went back to his own men.

  Sarah had to be in the tent, Durell decided. Rudi might have lied to everyone, all around, perhaps left her on the back trail or in Mirandhabad, so that he could return to her with some invented story of disaster and preserve his chances of marrying her. But not with the Chinese here, Durell thought. Rudi would have to show his good faith by bringing her with him. In that case, her life was in greatest danger the moment the fighting began—

  The blast of a grenade signalled K’Ayub’s attack. It came from the cave, hurled by one of the remaining troopers down there, as a diversion. It did no damage. But it made the besiegers tumble out of their tents and sleeping bags in expectation of a counterattack, focusing their attention on the cave mouth.

  Several more grenades and shots brought the Emir and the Chinese commander toward the cave entrance. Most of the Pakhustis and Chinese were awake and milling about, gathering up their weapons.

  Up above, K’Ayub gave the signal to fire.

  The sharp rattle of machine guns and rifles split the dawn silence. The effect was devastating, as the fire poured down from the height above the unsuspecting enemy. Screams and shrieks of panic were drowned out by the troopers’ steady onslaught. It was a complete surprise. Secure in thinking that no one could escape from the cave, the enemy was not prepared for their appearance above and on the flank. It was a massacre.

  Almost at once, the Pakhustis ran in panic for their shaggy ponies. They were cut down without pity by the troopers. K’Ayub did not relent. The encampment below became a shambles. The Chinese tried to rally, and K’Ayub ordered the commander cut down. The shots were quick and effective. Disorder yielded to more panic below. The shale plateau was dotted with bodies. A fire broke out in one of the tents, sending a thin plume of smoke into the clear dawn air.

  Obviously, the enemy thought they had been set upon by a relieving column of regular Pakistan Army troops. They fled on foot and pony. The Chinese tried to shelter themselves among the rocks, and few stray, futile shots came up, seeking targets. But in a few minutes their resistance broke, too.

  Durell searched for Rudi and Sarah. No shots were aimed at the Emir’s tent, on K’Ayub’s orders. With the first outbreak of firing, Rudi had appeared there, then had ducked out of sight. Durell’s worry deepened. If Sarah was a prisoner and used as a hostage, their victory was weakened. He got to his feet, ignored the colonel’s shout, and started to run down the slope into the enemy camp. K’Ayub’s men could not hold themselves back. They shouted and jumped up, too, and ran downhill into the shattered camp.

  Durell was well ahead of the others. A bullet whined past his head, another kicked up gravel at his feet. He saw the
Emir in a white tunic and turban, running for his tent. Somehow he had escaped the first burst of fire. The Emir darted into his tent. Durell passed a few sprawled bodies, hurdled a smoldering camp fire, and swung toward the big tent.

  Rudi and Sarah came out.

  The Emir had a gun at Rudi’s back. Sarah’s hands were tied behind her. She looked frightened, not knowing what was happening. Durell felt a vast relief, shouted to her—and then halted abruptly.

  The Emir shot Rudi in the back.

  The sound was muffled in the clamor of gunfire and yelling around them. Smoke drifted around the big tent, hiding it. Durell was still fifty feet away when Rudi went down on his knees, a look of astonishment on his face. Then he pitched forward on the gray shale and was still.

  The Pakhusti chief turned his gun on Sarah.

  Durell’s shout distracted him. The Emir was a big man, well over six feet, with a fierce mustache and a face like a ravaged bird of prey. He looked at Durell, running well ahead of K’Ayub’s men, and hesitated. Sarah sank to her knees beside Rudi’s body. The Pakhusti raised his gun, fired at Durell, fired again.

  He missed both times, and Durell jumped over Rudi’s body and grappled for the other’s gun. The Emir stumbled over Sarah, went down. His gun went off a third time. Durell felt the other man’s strength and knew that he himself was spent. He swung the butt of his borrowed rifle as hard as he could, but his blow rocked the Pakhusti backward only a step. He scrambled up before Durell could regain his footing. He still had his gun, leveled, ready to fire—

  Sarah fired the last shot. She had snatched up Rudi’s gun to use it. The Pakhusti turned halfway to her, amazed, coughed blood, and staggered back into the tent.

  Durell turned slowly toward Sarah. She was on her knees beside Rudi. He could not see her face, and the wind blew her hair across her cheek. Her body was in an attitude of collapse, and the gun she had used lay on the ground beside her.