Assignment White Rajah

by Edward S. Aarons

  "No."

  "Could you not love me—a little?"

  He was only human.

  13

  He dreamed that the sampan was moving, but then he awoke and knew it was not a dream, for when he opened his eyes, he saw that dawn had brightened the Pasangara River. He heard booted footsteps on the planking of the pier overhead and a curt, military order. He turned and looked for Pala Mir on the adjacent pallet in the little cabin.

  She was gone. And his gun was gone, too.

  He had not heard her leave, and he felt dismayed that he had slept so soundly and had felt secure enough not to be aware of her movements. His clothes had dried partly, and he had time to get into them while the voices and the boots went on overhead. But in the meantime someone was trying to fish the sampan out from under the pier.

  The hot dawn sunlight was blinding as the sampan was pulled out into the cove between the warehouses. Durell stepped out of the cabin and looked up into the muzzle of a gun held by Colonel Tileong.

  Tileong looked very pleased with himself.

  "Ah, Mr. Durell! What an odd place to find you!"

  "A coincidence, I'm sure," Durell said.

  "Completely. A routine search of the waterfront. And what do I find? The mysterious American who has been at the heart of our local difficulties ever since arrival here."

  "I didn't start your riots," Durell said.

  "How can we be sure? Everything is so unsettled." Tileong lowered his gun a little. "Please climb up the ladder. Do not be—ah—adventurous, now."

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "Yes. Certainly. This time, yes."

  "May I call the consulate?"

  "No. Later, perhaps. Now, no."

  Lieutenant Parepa bulked hugely behind the dapper little figure of the colonel. His wide mouth grinned. He carried an automatic rifle at his hip, pointed at Durell, as Durell climbed out of the sampan and up the slats of the ladder to the deck of the pier. There were other militiamen there and a black Humber sedan. He did not see Pala Mir. Either she had betrayed him, for reasons of her own, or it had been someone else; he hadn^t been found here by accident. He briefly considered Chiang Gi, Paul Merrydale, and George Hammond. He saw that the freighter that had been anchored in the river during the night was gone. Staining the bright morning sky, smoke made a muddy pall over the Chungsu area. Otherwise, the sounds on the docks and the nearby streets were normal.

  "Get in the car, please," said Tileong.

  Durell did not argue. He started into the back seat, but Parepa nudged him with the muzzle of his automatic rifle, so he got into the front instead. Parepa slid behind the driver's wheel. Tileong and a noncom got in the back. They took off as if Tileong were in a hurry.

  He expected to be taken to the towering white government building that dominated the town, but the Humber was directed the other way through the mean slums of Chungsu and out along a deserted, weed-grown boulevard that presently skirted the swampy coast. The sun that rose over the sea was malevolent with its heat and brilliance. Parrots flashed across the empty, deserted paving, and he saw monkeys swinging in the trees. Sea birds hovered over the beach. A fishing village offered no signs of life. The boulevard, obviously long neglected, became bumpy; the asphalt and occasional patches of concrete were heaved, cracked, and broken. Durell began to worry as the town was left miles behind.

  "Where are you taking me?" he asked.

  "My headquarters," said Tileong.

  "I must notify my consulate."

  "They will be informed that you have been taken into custody for a violation of the curfew and for inciting disturbances in the city."

  "What about a lawyer?"

  "Pasangara is under martial law. All civil rights have been temporarily revoked by order of Premier Kuang."

  The weedy, dilapidated boulevard ended nowhere, five miles south of the town. There were mangrove swamps, and a warm wind blew from over the South China Sea that stretched in green placidity to the eastern horizon. A bit of white sand beach was lined with coconut palms. Parepa bumped the Humber off the end of the boulevard and headed into the hard-packed sand. They slewed a little, the rear wheels spun, and then they splashed through shallow sea water. Another road began a half mile further on. Durell noted there had been no other car tracks on the beach.

  Presently he saw the steel web of a radio tower above the palms and mangroves. Then the road improved, and they circled inland and came out again on a second beach where an old Martello-type fort, built of bricks used as ship ballast in former years, stood facing the sea. The fort was overgrown with weeds and vines and looked a century old. The provincial flag flew from a staff at the entrance. * Parepa stopped the car.

  Durell felt Tileong tap his shoulder, so he got out of the Humber and stood in the breathless morning heat, facing the glitter of the sea. There were bicycles racked at the fort entrance, and a militiaman armed with a rifle saluted as Tileong approached. There were other soldiers here, and as he walked through the tunnel-like entrance, he glimpsed a radio room that went with the modem steel tower over the fort. He knew that whatever the situation in Pasangara, Tileong had personal communication with the capital and perhaps anywhere else in the world.

  "Please enter my office," Tileong said.

  There had to be a generator to provide independent power for the radio here. There was a desk, a narrow slot of a window that faced the sea, and a deep embrasure where an old cannon had once been sited. Two wooden chairs stood against the damp, mossy brick wall. A map of the province was framed on the opposite wall. Over the desk was a portrait of a smiling, roly-poly Chinese of genial countenance, and Durell recognized it as Premier Kuang, governmental chief of Pasangara. The militia guard went away, and Parepa stood by the door while Tileong seated himself behind his desk. The desk was very clean, except for a single folder set in the middle of the green blotter, and Tileong used his carefully manicured hands to square the folder neatly before he sighed and lit a cigarette.

  He did not offer Durell one or ask him to sit down. Durell took one of the wooden chairs, anyway.

  Tileong said, "I would like to be civilized about all this, Mr. Durell."

  "Of course. What is this place?"

  "My headquarters. Security Station Five."

  "Convenient and private," Durell observed.

  "Oh, yes. I do my most important work here. This fort was built by the White Rajah, the old man who still lives in Pasangara. It was a long time ago. It is useful."

  "For rubber hose techniques?"

  "I told you," Tileong said gently, "I would like to be decent about this. Are you hungry?"

  "I've had no breakfast, as you know."

  "It will be attended to presently. We will have coflfee soon. Are you thirsty?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, presently. I am hurried for time. It will depend on you and how you give me the information I need."

  "Is this an official interrogation?" Durell asked.

  "You may call it that." Tileong opened the folder, looked at it, and then stared out through the slot in the embrasure and studied the sea, as if he were searching for something out there on its dazzling green surface. Tileong's smooth brown face looked as if he had not slept for several nights. His narrow little moustache needed trimming. He said, "We would like to know, in aU truthfulness and in all detail, just what you are doing here in Pasangara at this particular time, Mr. Durell."

  "I have been assigned as assistant legal secretary to Mr. Condon, the American consul."

  Tileong said smoothly, "Yes, and we are very interested in the reason why the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States considers Pasangara of such interest as to send you to assist Mr. George Hammond in whatever project he is working on."

  Durell was silent.

  "Do you deny being an agent of the CIA?"

  "Of course I deny it."

  "You are being extremely foolish, sir." Tileong opened and closed the folder without looking at it. "How did you happen to find
Miss Pala Mir?"

  "A fine young woman."

  "Did you make love to her during the night?"

  "That's quite a personal question."

  "I apologize. Was she very frightened by the unfortunate incident which overtook her?"

  "Of course."

  "Have you met old Anthony Merrydale, our White Rajah?" Tileong did not smile.

  "No."

  "A most interesting gentleman. How long have you known Mr. George Hammond?"

  "Many years. He's an old friend."

  "And Lily Fan?"

  "Don't know her."

  "You met her last night, did you not?"

  "No," Durell said.

  Tileong sighed. "Mr. Durell, I cannot remain too long away from Pasangara. The violence there is growing. I have so little time. Do you like our climate here, by the way?'*

  "It reminds me a little of home."

  "Ah, yes. What is your province? Louisiana? Delta country, I believe, much Uke Pasangara's."

  Durell felt hungry and thirsty, but he knew Tileong's ploy, so he sat quietly, watching the sea through the fort's embrasure. A telephone rang somewhere and then rang again on Tileong's desk. He answered it in quick Malay, his black eyes regarding Durell blankly, as if he weren't really there. Durell looked at the portrait of Premier Kuang. After a moment, Tileong hung up and then stood, short and very neat in his uniform.

  "I must go. I will ask you once more: what is your business in Pasangara? I assure you, I would make every effort to cooperate with you, if possible. I am not your enemy. You do have enemies here, that is true; but I am not one of them. Nevertheless, I have my duty to perform, and I will take every step to learn the truth, whatever the cost may be."

  "To hell with you," Durell said.

  "Very well. I will leave the rest of the questions to Lieutenant Parepa."

  Parepa spoke only basic English. His methods were equally basic. He enjoyed his work and went at it with a gusto that perhaps exceeded Colonel Tileong's orders.

  "You tell me truth now," he grunted.

  "Let's get Mr. Condon, the consul, over here."

  "Nobody help you. You all mine."

  "You must beheve in Santa Claus," Durell said.

  "Who he?"

  "Never mind. It would take too long to explain."

  "Have much time. You talk. I listen."

  Parepa used his rubber truncheon this time. The first blow slammed across the side of Durell's head and knocked him out of the chair. He came up with his head ringing and his vision blurred but aimed his fist at Parepa's belly. Parepa stepped back and laughed.

  "Not here. Colonel like his furniture. We break nothing here. Come."

  There was a small cell in the back of the brick fort. It had no windows, and it smelled of palm rats, the sea, and death. A single faint bulb hung from a wire overhead, naked and garish. There was no furniture at all. A massive steel-grilled gate was the only way in or out, and two guards, who looked fairly alert, stood out in the dank corridor with their weapons ready.

  Parepa knew his business and was perfectly single-minded about it. Durell soon lost track of time. He was aware of pain, of blood in his mouth, of a useless hand hanging limply from what felt like a broken wrist. He could see only dimly. Once or twice he passed out and was vaguely aware of the cool stone floor, a blessing in the sullen heat that encompassed the fort and the beach. He tried to keep these periods of lying inert as long as possible, but Parepa was difficult to fool. The questions went on and on.

  "You with CIA?"

  "Never heard of it."

  "What is K Section?"

  "Don't know."

  "What your business here?"

  "Tourist."

  "You lie." Pause. "You with consulate?"

  "Right. Chalk one up for you. Call them."

  "How you work with Pala Mir? She Communist? Why you work with her, hey?"

  "She's a wonderful girl."

  "Her brother fine man. She bad girl. Old Rajah bad man, eh?"

  "Never met the old gentleman."

  "You son-bitch, you lie to Parepa?"

  "Never, buddy."

  More pain, darkness, and strange whirling lights behind his eyes. He did not fight back. Deep in his mind, a warning glowed and held steady. Parepa wanted to kill him. You didn't give him the opportunity or the excuse. Hang on. You last long enough, maybe Tileong will come back. Not much help there, though. Pain in the left hand, pain behind the eyes. An image of George Hammond, a human wreck after East Germany, drifted into his mind and chilled his heart. He didn't want to end up like George Hammond. And George had been lucky. Maybe. They let him live. Parepa meant to kill him. Maybe you could kill Parepa first.

  Durell became a cunning animal, remembering how to ease the blows, to roll with them, to go with the twists and wrenches of limbs and torso. Parepa was panting. He was big but there was some blubber on him. Parepa sweated. There was a pause, and Parepa howled at one of the guards, who hurried away and presently came back with a mug of tea. Parepa leaned against the brick wall, drank the tea with sucking noises, and looked at Durell, who had let himself be thrown into the comer like a pile of old rags.

  "Lots time," Parepa said. "You like tea?"

  "I prefer coffee."

  "Hungry?"

  "No. I need some bicarb."

  "Hey?"

  "I have a stomach ache."

  Parepa laughed.

  He slept. He dreamed bad dreams. The light that hung by its wire from the ceiling did not go out. He was alone, and he could not see the guards through the grilled gate to the fortress cell, but he could hear them talking somewhere. He could hear, too, the sound of the sea on the beach and the sudden squawk of a parrot and then, surprisingly, a volley of shots, and then another volley. The jungle around them went very silent. Durell stared up at the glowing light bulb. It seemed very dim, and it was difficult to judge its distance because one eye was closed, his left one, since Parepa seemed to favor it for his knuckles. At least he hadn't gouged it out with his thumb. The wire was long enough. If you jumped high enough, you might tear it loose from the ceiling. Then tie it around your throat and tie it to something else in the ceiling. But the arching bricks had nothing to fasten it to. You didn't want to end up like George Hammond, broken in body and spirit. Better the wire and quick strangulation.

  Parepa came in again.

  "You have good rest, CIA man?"

  "Lovely."

  "You talk now?"

  "Anything you say."

  "Good. What you do in Pasangara?"

  "When the U.S. Marines land, you'll find out."

  Parepa laughed. He was very amused. "Once upon time, yes. Not today. Time change. No Marines for you. World is different. Washington no care what happen to American citizen now. Everybody spit on them, if they like."

  "That's right. Nobody likes to be in debt."

  "I spit on you, see?"

  Durell wiped it off his face.

  Parepa said, "I get tape recorder, you talk now, I get doctor, fix you up good as new, hey?"

  "The doctor is a good idea."

  "So you talk? Drink tea? Good rice? Rest and then go home."

  "No dancing girls?"

  Parepa frowned. "You son-bitch."

  Presently Durell felt himself hurled into deep blackness again.

  He awoke once more and kept his eyes closed, then heard a cultivated voice say, "It is inhuman what you have done to this man, Lieutenant Parepa. I do not care how stubborn he may be, we do not treat prisoners this way in Pasangara. Get the doctor down here, please, and do hurry. I will discuss this matter with you and Colonel Tileong later."

  "He prisoner. Security. No answer questions."

  "Never mind. Get the doctor."

  Durell opened his eyes. He thought for a moment he was back in Tileong's ofl&ce in the fort, looking at the portrait of Premier Kuang hanging on the wall. But this was Kuang in the flesh. Lots of it. The premier was a regular Humpty-Dumpty of a Chinese, round of face
and belly, with kindly, concerned eyes, a jovial smile, an intelligent brow, and a gentle manner. Behind the eyes there might be something else, but Durell was not concerned about that for the moment.

  "Ah, you are awake, sir?"

  "Somewhat."

  "The doctor will be here in a moment. I must apologize for what happened. It was all a terrible mistake."

  "Am I to be released?" Durell asked.

  "We will discuss that after the doctor comes."

  "Let me go now. I'll walk back to town."

  "That would be unthinkable, sir."

  The doctor came. He was a Chinese, too. Durell's mouth was clotted with blood, there was a cut inside his cheek, and his wrist needed taping; but nothing was broken. The doctor swabbed at his eye, made little hissing noises of consolation, dived into his bag of ointments, applied them, and took out a hypodermic syringe.

  "No needle," Durell said promptly.

  "But it will help with the pain."

  "I happen to feel fine."

  "You must have a sedative, sir."

  "No, thanks."

  Durell tried to stand up. He fell down, tried again, got to his feet, and leaned against the brick wall of the cell. Premier Kuang, in a fine silk suit of sky blue, watched him with interest. He should have felt flattered by Kuang's presence here, but it served only to alarm him. His ribs ached along his left side. When he felt them, the doctor hurried over to poke and prod, nod and hiss. Then he got more surgical tape and applied it with expert, careful hands. It was easier to breathe then.

  "You really must have a sedative at once, sir," the doctor insisted.

  "Let me see the vial."

  "Of course."

  It was a ten cc. bottle of Demerol. The syringe held only one cc. Durell nodded and let the doctor inject him. He hoped the label hadn't been faked or a different solution been injected in the vial; he didn't think they would go to that extreme here. He sat down on the floor again.

  Premier Kuang said, "You have become acquainted with my daughter, I understand. Lily Fan is a lovely girl but rather high-spirited and independent. She has forgotten the old ways of filial respect. I am most distressed by her relationship with your friend George Hammond."

  "I can understand that."

  Kuang gave Durell his Humpty-Dumpty smile. "It is plain from what Colonel Tileong tells me that you have not made his work simpler. I am only concerned with peace in Pasangara and reaching an end to our civil riots. We have democracy here, sir, as you can see from the fact that although I am premier, I am also Chinese, elected by a Malay majority. It is necessary, Mr. Durell, to remove you from my jurisdiction. We will take you back to your hotel where you may rest undisturbed, I assure you, and although the airfield has been damaged by subversives and Pao Thet terrorists who took advantage of the rioting—"