*'Good evening, gentlemen."
"You do take extraordinary risks, Si Durell."
"It's part of the business."
"We regret what happened. Stephenson is dead, of course. We are expert marksmen. We thought it would be best. We have been cooperating with your superior, General McFee, from the beginning."
"He could have told me," Durell said.
"Everything will be taken care of. But we suggest you return to Agadir and make every speedy arrangement to leave our country."
"Right. A pleasure."
The fat cop stared at Amanda. "The lady was not harmed?"
"She'll be fine," DureU said.
Her teeth began to chatter, two hours north of Gouli-mine. It was not quite midnight. A brilliant moon hung over the western sky. The air in the low foothills of the Anti Atlas mountains was sharp and crisp. Beyond the pass of Tizi Mighert, they reentered the groves of argan and caroub trees. The air was clean and refreshing.
"Stop the car, Sam. Please."
He ran the little Mercedes onto the green verge. Amanda walked a few steps away from the road and sank down to the grass. The flatlands of the desert stretched away to a dark infinity under the night sky. Durell sat in the car for a moment, then found Amanda's cigarettes in her purse, lighted one, and brought it to her. She did not look at him as she accepted it. She stared down at her hands in her lap.
"Damn . . ." she whispered. "Dear Lord, how could it all have come to pass?"
"These things happen," he said quietly.
"Hannibal killed. Steve a murderer. Richard the dupe of an egocentric ex-Nazi madman." She looked up at him. "Is that your business, Sam? I was so shocked when you were ready to sacrifice me in order to get Skoll. I realize now I'm nothing in the game you've been playing."
"It's not a game," he said.
"But you love it. It's your life. You belong to a very select brotherhood, don't you? High above us all, you watch and calculate and weigh the scales according to your own peculiar standards. Your world is one of crisis, murder, power. You feel above all the rest of us. We're just the poor, imknowing pawns you move about. We're aU so innocent—and you are so knowing. Do you feel contempt for us, Sam?"
"No."
"We're so ignorant of your world. You're detached from home and wife and children, a commuter's job. You look at the world as if it were a chessboard. You've gone so far from the happy little things in life that you've forgotten how to find them again. You've lost them. You deny them. You don't know about children with colds, or simple walks in the park, or a holiday at the seashore. And you can't ever come back to it again."
She began to weep, in great, silent wrackings of her proud body. DureU sat down beside her. The stars pulsed in the black sky. He watched the moon, and Amanda suddenly turned to him with a convulsive sob and clung to him with a desperation he could not reject. He knew he could not think of her charges, because some were true, and the fact that they were true could not be changed, and because he could not change it, he had to go on living with it. He had chosen the world she had described, was enmeshed in it with no way out of the net, ever.
He took her quietly, izently, on the grass beside the car, and the differences between them of the past week dissolved as they made love, each with a yearning born out of their private despair.
33
"It would be best," General McFee said, "if you delete HCI as much as possible from your report. The Senate Committee will call for an investigation, otherwise, and tie up PASS base for months. And we want to keep our spies flying up there, you see."
"Whatever you say," Durell agreed. He looked at McFee's knobby blackthorn stick and added, "It's not over yet."
"You've found the base, Samuel, that was interfering with our satellites. Von Handel is dead. TTie Moroccan police are taking care of Stephenson's death. They've given you forty-eight hours to get out of the country."
"That's enough time," Durell said.
"Amanda is all right?"
"She's had a number of shocks, but in a way, they've been therapy for her. She was too dependent on her husband. She tried to hide from reality, and when I came along, she woke up."
"Prince Charming and the sleeping princess?"
Durell said nothing. In the gardens of the Auberge de la Plage all was quiet except for the muted Atlantic surf on the distant beaches. It would soon be dawn again. There was a scent of roses in the air, of lemons and night-blooming flowers. There was a fire down on the beach, where some fishermen were working on their boats.
After a moment, McFee went on, "You took some rather appalling chances, Samuel. The papers I sent you were all false, you know."
"Yes, I knew that."
"There was never any proof that the progression went as you bluffed to Stephenson. The murder of Hannibal, the discovery of that murder by Von Handel, the blackmail that forced Stephenson to follow Von Handel's orders—"
"How is poor Richard?" Durell asked.
"Quite safe. We think he'll be fine. You could really fly on home now, you know. A bit of rest is in order. Amanda is not talking to you, still?"
"We've made up." Durell smiled.
"I thought you might. I could get Thompson or Fred Devon down here to clean up the loose ends."
"I want to do it," Durell said.
"A personal vendetta?"
"I lost a million in taxpayers' money. So did Dodd. Dodd was killed. He was betrayed, and I was betrayed."
"If you make it personal, however, you lose a certain necessary perspective."
"Maybe that's necessary," Durell said. "A man can lose his sense of humanity, being too long in this business."
McFee caressed his walking stick. "I suppose so. If you insist—"
"I do."
"How long will it take you, Samuel?"
"One more day."
"Well," said McFee, "do be careful."
34
Fez was unchanged. Fez never changed. The Sultan Bou Inane in the 14th century and Moulay Hassan in the 19th had added their monuments, but the city itself was timeless now, wrapped in its Islamic traditions, solid in the red stones of its foundations, noisy and sometimes violent in its crowded souks and alleys, in its magnificent soaring mosques.
''Welcome, welcome back." The French proprietor of Durell's hotel hurried ahead of him. "I have your room ready, the same room, sir, if you are satisfied with it."
"I won't be staying too long."
"As long as you like, sir. Once in love with our beautiful city, you will return again and again."
The room above the market lane was unchanged, too. There was no sprawling Colonel Skoll on his bed, however, to point a vodka bottle at him and say, "Boom, you are dead!" From habit, Durell checked the wardrobe, the bathroom beyond the beaded curtain. Clean enough. No hidden mikes, no tricky devices to blow him to bits. He wondered about this, because he had been expecting it since he first arrived. Someone had been very anxious to kill him then. Maybe it was over. But he doubted it.
He showered, and cleaned the Saharan sand from his gun. He oiled it, tested the trigger tension, and put it in his belt. From the bottom of his bag he took a long, razor-thin knife and fastened it to his forearm under his sleeve. He took a small flashlight and a set of picklocks, drew a deep breath, and told himself there was no point in waiting.
He had flown from Agadir to Casablanca on the regular DC-3 flight, then by Caravelle to Fez, and it was now sunset and growing dark. He had asked McFee to wait at Agadir and take care of Amanda, and the little gray man had accepted the task as a compliment. Richard Coppitt had been sent off with two anonymous men from Washington, one a doctor, and no doubt was circling over Dulles International at this moment. Richard's prognosis was good. Whether he would ever direct his genius for HCI or PA.SS again was questionable, however.
And there was still the question of Dodd's missing million, and his own. A matter of pride, he told himself. You could get your neck broken, he added.
But it had to be done.
&
nbsp; When he was ready, he left the hotel and walked through the alleys beyond the souk to Olliver's house.
The street was dark, with only a single lamp at the far comer to light the tall buildings that seemed to lean their upper stories toward each other at the top of the alleyway. The sign in Arabic and French over Olliver's coppersmith shop had been taken down. The flyblown window, which had displayed standard works of Moroccan craftsmanship, were boarded up. He looked up at the upper windows, narrow and grilled and secretive in their embrasures, but no lights shone anywhere. He used the big knocker on the shop door, and heard the thumps reverberate through the inner rooms; but no one came to open the door for him.
A donkey brayed. A radio down the alley had a falsetto tenor crooning to his habibi. Durell hoped he wasn't too late. Then he heard the African finches singing.
He hammered on the iron knocker again, then walked quickly down the lane to the back of the old fondouk and tested his picklock on the back door. Olliver hadn't changed the lock. He knew there was an alarm somewhere, triggered by the door, but he didn't bother to disconnect it.
The inside room was dark. No servants slept in it this time. He climbed the stone steps to the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard, but no lights shone anywhere. He wondered about the little Arab girl who had always been at Olliver's side. Pools of shadow lay in the courtyard below. No one down there. Then he heard the startled flutter of wings, and one of the finches began to sing, and then the sound was ended abruptly. Turning, he went up the last flight of stairs to the attic room that Olliver used for his K Section work.
He suspected he was not thinking as carefully as he should. Maybe he was pushing too fast. He had scarcely rested in Agadir, after the long trek to Goulimine, and the urgent need to finish this up made him take chances.
"Olliver!" he called.
His voice echoed through the rooms on the top floor. The servants were gone. The shop was closed. He paused outside the door to what he remembered was Olliver's bedroom. There was a long table in the white-washed corridor, and flowers stood in a brass bowl shaped like an old water jug. They were fresh and scented. Through the fretwork of the cedarwood shutters a pattern of white moonlight touched the clean stone floor. The sky around the moon looked violet with the deepening of night. Other light came up from the lane below, reflecting on the white arched hall ceiling. He listened, but he heard no sound. Even the bright little finches in their bamboo cages were silent now.
Then the bronze clock in the north wall of the courtyard made a rumbling sound and rang and then went quiet. He thought he heard the scrape of a leather ba-bouche on the stone floor beyond the door. With one long stride, he went across the doorway and flattened against the white wall on the other side. His gun was raised, his head turned to watch the entrance to the bedroom.
He was looking the wrong way.
"All right, Cajun. Very clever. I told you, you do take incredible risks, old chap."
Olliver spoke from behind him. A gun muzzle nudged his back. He smelled the garlic on Olliver's breath, as well as a smell of sweat and fear.
"You may come out now, my dear," Olliver called.
The little Arab girl moved solemnly through the Moorish arch of the doorway. She wore a ragged little yellow shift, and on her feet were the worn, overlarge slippers Olliver had contemplated during Durell's previous visit here. Durell did not move. He watched the girl scuttle around him and disappear, but not before her great round eyes rolled toward him and then beyond him.
"Really, Cajun," said Olliver. "Why couldn't you simply have knocked?"
"I did. You didn't answer. The place looks closed."
"I—ah—am taking a little vacation."
"With your bit of a houri?"
"I am very fond of the child."
"Is that why you bruise her up so much?"
"You really do take risks, old boy. Really, you do. How foolish of you." Olliver's voice was not quite as casual as he wanted it to be. "I hear you did well down in the South."
"It's all over, Olliver. May I lower my hands?"
"Tsk! Am I a fool?"
"Worse. You're going to be a dead fool."
The little girl said something in whispered Arabic. Olliver laughed. "The child likes you, Cajun. I can't imagine why. I never did."
"That's true. You tried to kill me often enough."
"You've put the pieces together?"
"All of them."
"Think I have the money?"
"All of it."
"So you came back like some great avenging American eagle, to get back the government's money? A matter of conscience?"
"Something like that. But not just for the money."
"For Jimmv Dodd?"
"For Dodd. Yes."
"My dear chap. Poor fellow. It is a shame. You could have been so useful. You could have been so rich. Now you may just become so dead."
"Tell me more about it, Olliver. It looks as if you're planning to move out. Will you take the child, too?"
The Arab girl said something again, and Olliver replied angrily, "Never mind that, Falani. Put on the lamp."
"Is that her real name? Falani?"
"Yes. Don't move, Sam."
The girl darted around him and in a moment the lights came on in the room beyond the doorway. The gun nudged Durell's ribs, and he walked in. Falani shrank
away from him, her eyes big and mysterious. TTicre was a Sarouk rug and blue faience panels, a lemon silk couch and twin taborets with inlaid mother-of-peari. Hanging on the white wall were miniature paintings, a niche of bright tiles, ivories, and elaborately chased, gold-handled scimitars. The Moorish window overlooking the courtyard was cedarwood fretwork. The light came from a great beaten copper lamp hanging from a chain in the domed ceiling. He had not seen this room before.
"Drop your gun on the divan, please, like a good chap, Durell."
Durell tossed the .38 to the silk-covered couch. It bounced against a tasseled cushion. The little girl put a finger in her mouth and wiggled a loose tooth and said in surprising English, "Did you come for the money, mister?"
Olliver cursed and slapped her across the mouth with massive strength. Under the lamplight, the man's vulturine face was convulsed with rage. "Get out, Falani. Out! Finish packing my things."
The girl staggered, hit the wall, slumped like a rag doll, then crawled to the door and picked herself up. She did not cry or burst into tears. She looked up at Durell, then turned and ran from sight. Olliver listened to her footsteps until they could not be heard any more.
"If you think," he said gratingly, "that you've come here like a knight in shining armor, Cajun, to get back the money and rescue the child, you're a bigger fool than I ever suspected. I know you're alone. You can't bluff that you've come with McFee's help. It won't work. I know you. I've been expecting you to return, on a personal vendetta."
"Yes. Dodd was my friend."
"He was stupid and careless. Like yourself. Of course, it's been all that money, all along."
"You sold out?"
"Only to myself," OUiver said. He crossed the room, as if to pick up Durell's gun from the couch, then waved Durell up against the blue faience panels. Durell kept his hands high and said, "I see that your broken leg is all healed. Lucky for you. It wiU help you to run, Ollie. But you'll never run far enough or fast enough."
"I never had a broken leg." Olliver laughed. The copper lamp hanging from its chain cast his shadow against the white waU. "The cast on my leg was a convenient alibi to cover what I had to do. It's true, I did everything for the money. I have everything arranged. I'll be safe. And rich. You people will never find me."
"You had a nice network of aides, Ollie. Hassan, and the desk clerk at the Auberge de la Plage—"
"Anyone can be bought. Everyone has a price."
"And Von Handel bought you, didn't he. Made you part of his blackmail network? But Von Handel is dead now. You cheated him, and you cheated us."
Olliver made a giggling sound.
Under his bushy brows, his eyes were hooded and dark. "Move away a bit, Sam. You're standing in front of my safe, behind the faience. Two million, three hundred thousand, in unmarked United States currency. rU be glad to leave this rotten, filthy hole."
"Taking Falani with you?"
"No. She amused me, that was all. And she's growing too clever—"
"And too old for your peculiar tastes?"
Something red flickered in Olliver's sunken eyes. He still wore a stained striped silk shirt and baggy cotton slacks and broken leather slippers. He needed a shave. The bristles of his beard were shot with gray. Durell did not take his eyes from him. His upraised hand was within inches of the golden hilt of one of the scimitars hanging on the wall. When Olliver leaned sidewise to pick up the .38 from the divan, Durell grabbed for the sword, yanked it loose, and threw the heavy blade with all his strength.
He missed.
It was too much to hope for. The golden handle struck Olliver's arm, however, and his own gun spun from the man's fingers. Olliver's face reflected sudden shock. With a shout, he turned and ran from the room.
Durell did not pause to pick up a weapon. Olliver was quick, and by the time Durell reached the arched doorway, there was only the sound of his feet hammering the stone steps to the roof. There was no sign of the little girl. The stairway was a narrow black maw, unlighted, twisting upward. Then there was a flicker of starlight as a hatch was opened. The stars were blotted out by Olliver's figure as he climbed out. Durell took the stone steps two and three at a time. The money was not enough. For one of the rare times in his life, he threw aside caution, forgot the odds against survival, ignored the rules. He wanted Olliver. If Olliver got away, if he were lost from sight, he could escape into the maze of Fez' alleys and cellars. Olliver would have alternate plans for himself, fall-back positions of strength and danger. He would never be found again, if he got away now.
The hatch started to come down on Durell's head as he reached the top of the steps. He shoved both hands upward with all his strength and slammed it aside, heard a curse, and then the crunch of feet running away. Durell hauled himself up and crouched on the roof.
Assignment Star Stealers Page 16