Durell spoke quietly to Pala Mir. "Hammond is ahead of us. He's determined to reach your grandfather's mountain palace first, and he'll do anything to stop me from getting there before he makes it."
She frowned. "But I thought you worked with him."
"I did. But he has a devil on his back."
"Did he try to kill you last night?"
"I think so."
"Would he try again?"
"Perhaps. He's not quite sane now. I know all about it, and I'm sorry for him, but that doesn't make him any less dangerous."
The Rajah said, "It is distressing. It would be difficult enough to cope with the Pao Thets, who have become much bolder since the city riots. Or with Tileong, who has tagged you as a criminal, sir. Or even to overcome the obstructions of my erring grandson, who is obsessed with hatred for you. But to have your own compatriot in a kind of devil's footrace against you—^"
Durell nodded. He didn't like the feeling of the ruined, empty town. "Could you speak in Malay to a woman in there, sir? She's in shock but it might help."
The tall old man got out of the Land Rover with slow dignity. His white hair gleamed in the sunlight. The stunned woman still rocked on her haunches in the comer of the shattered inn. The chicken pecked about her naked feet. Her toenails had been painted.
"Ask if she's heard any planes go over lately. Jets. Lots of noise. Coming down." '
The old man frowned. "I don't imderstand—"
The woman stared at Durell's Uzi, and she was mute until he put it aside and smiled at her. The Rajah spoke gently but with an air of paternal authority. It was doubtful if she recognized him as the former ruler of the province. She simply moaned and rocked from side to side as the Rajah put the question to her. Then she muttered, closed her eyes, and nodded.
"She says yes, several times," the Rajah repeated.
"How many times?"
"She is not sure. Almost two hands, she says."
"Between five and ten times, then. Ask her if they all went the same way."
The Rajah's quiet voice lulled the frightened woman. She nodded again. "Now ask her," Durell said, "who destroyed the village. Then describe George Hammond, and ask if she has seen him this morning."
The soft Malay words went back and forth in the dusty simUght. The Rajah said, "She is not sure who the men were who shot up Trang Bhatu. They came at dawn. She remembers the Communist terror in the rubber plantations twenty years ago, and she says it was like that but worse, more brutal. They killed her husband. As for George Hammond—yes, she says a man like that was here shortly after the Pao Thets."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Is he still in the village?"
The Rajah asked the question, then shrugged. "She does not know. He was here less than an hour ago."
The river ran wide and shallow at the ford above the town. Fallen trees and debris, swept down from the hills, made a natural dam, a vast tangle of logs, stones, and tangled brush. Sunlight twinkled on the sand and the mud shallows below it. Hunting small fish in the pools formed by the low water, long-legged birds moved as if on stilts. Durell stopped the car at the river's edge and surveyed the opposite bank with the Rajah's field glasses.
The low-growing jungle seemed empty of all life. He scanned it for several moments before he nodded.
"Let's go."
21
Two miles beyond the ford the primitive road joined the main highway to the mountains. They passed through small, empty villages, but none had been destroyed Hke Trang Bhatu. Merrydale explained that the highway had been built for expressway buses to the inland mountain resorts, but there was no trafl&c on the road now.
Gradually, the land lifted above the miasmic coastal swamps, but clouds formed, coming in from the South China Sea, and presently it began to rain in huge, warm drops, that soon developed into a torrential downpour.
At two in the afternoon Durell caught a glint of something shiny in the rear mirror. The road had narrowed, and after a curve lifted to the right through a gorge, he caught another glimmer of the light. He waited five minutes, and then he was certain. He began looking for a place to pull off the highway. The jimgle was close by on every hand. For the past half hour they had seen no villages, but there were terraced rice paddies and incurious farmers in conical straw hats, working plows behind their water buffalo. The Rover shook the planks of a small bridge. Then they came upon some fields where two naked boys astride a buffalo waved and rapped the great homed beast with their wands.
"Are we being followed?" the Rajah asked quietly.
Durell thought the old gentleman had grown in strength and stature since they had started. The few people they had passed in the fields had recognized him, and one man had shouted and waved. Durell looked in the mirror again.
"Motorcycles and a troop-carrying truck."
"Can we outrun them?"
"I doubt it."
"If you don't mind a suggestion, my dear chap—"
"It would be welcome," Durell said dryly.
"Good. You are in command here. But I do know the country, sir. It was once my country, in a sense. We must turn off about two miles farther on, anyway. There's an old rubber farm there—MacCampbell had it, a fine lad, but the Communists got him in '51, or was it '50? Never mind. It's been abandoned for years. We could pull off there and see if the military turn off after us. If they do, they're on the way to the mountains, too."
"Would it be Colonel Tileong?"
"No doubt of it. A most capable and energetic gentleman. He helped organize the Kota Tinggi Jungle Warfare School with the British, refining jungle fighting techniques learned against the Red insurgents in our emergency of the 1950s. The Thais and the South Vietnamese have sent officers here to learn how we won our struggle then."
"Tell me," Durell said, "are you afraid of Paul?"
The Rajah cleared his throat. "Well, about my grandson. . . The past is over with and best forgotten. My title is an anachronism today. I put on quite a show for you last night, I fear. As for Paul, he insists I am senile, and he terrifies me, frankly. I cannot control him now. He is anxious to dominate Pasangara's affairs. He actually considered running against Premier Kuang m the last election—and got soundly trounced, of course. Upset him dreadfully. Hasn't been the same since."
"Why are you afraid of him?"
The old man said, "Because Paul is dangerous, sir."
"How? To whom?"
"He is too ambitious. He works day and night at his business; iie is possessed by a drive to succeed. He has shown some jealousy toward my dear Pala—"
Pala Mir, in the back of the Rover, interrupted, "We'd better turn off soon. The military is in a hurry."
The road was a desolate path through gloomy rows of rubber trees that the jungle had hastened to repossess long ago. The rain persisted. After a half mile the Rajah gestured to the right, and Durell turned the jouncing vehicle into*an even smaller trail that led deeper into the gray shadows. He cut the ignition. They sat and listened. Soon they heard the growing beat of motorcycles and truck engines through the pattering rain; the echoes reverberated along the dark rows of abandoned trees. Then the sounds died away.
"Good," said the old man. "They are taking the main road to my former estate. We can reach the mountains quicker this way through MacCampbell's place."
Durell moved to the ignition key, then halted. A new sound came through the waves of soughing wind and rain. Low-hanging clouds seemed to touch the tops of the towering rubber trees. He looked up, but the vines and bamboo that had penetrated this once-cultivated area blocked off the sky.
But that sound was unmistakable. It was a small, twin-prop plane, flying low and to the southwest.
The Rajah made a small sound of annoyance. "I'm afraid that is Paul's private aircraft. Pala Mir has flown in it several times, is that correct, my dear?"
The girl nodded and Durell said, "He's heading for the mountain palace."
The old man nodded grimly. "I do wish
you would explain your objective, Mr. Durell. Everyone seems to have a purpose in suddenly making for the mountains, but I am still in the dark. Very few people from Pasangara come this way since the Pao Thet disturbances began."
Durell started the engine and headed deeper into the abandoned plantation. The trail was rough but not impossible. The rain was heavier. There was a sharp-angled turn to the right, then a climbing slope that made the car pitch and groan. After a mile they came out on a cleared area of low-growing brush. A deserted village of workers' huts appeared out of the gloom. It had been empty a long time, and the houses were overgrown with vines. Just beyond it on a knoll stood a long, low house of mahogany boarding with a wide porch. Fire had eaten away one end of the building, but most of it still stood. Bamboo grew up around it, forty feet tall, making a dense growth that screened them from the house. Halfway there, a fallen log barred the way. Durell braked and listened to the rain and wind in the mabolo.
"Stay here," he said.
"Let me help you move the log," said the Rajah.
"Better not."
Durell walked carefully up the trail to the fallen tree. He carried the Uzi with him. Rain quickly soaked him. As he studied the trail, his face grew grim. He took two more cautious steps and halted. He heard the Rajah get out of the car behind him, but he did not look around.
He took another step, then saw the drangh trap—almost too late.
There was a sharp snapping sound, a whir, a violent thrashing, and then tiiree bamboo javelins hissed through the air. He had only a split second to throw himself side-wise and flat.
There was a metallic clang as one of the spears hit the Land Rover. Pala Mir screamed, and Durell rolled into the thick bamboo beside the path. There came a second snapping sound, and the drangh released three more of the needle-point bamboo lances. They whirred overhead and fell harmlessly beyond the vehicle.
Durell got slowly to his feet. The old Rajah stood beside the Rover, his face pale with anger.
"It was a favorite booby trap of the Communists," the old man said. "Back in '52, one of my best friends was killed this way."
"Are you all right?" Durell asked.
"Yes, thanks."
*Tala Mir?"
"Yes," she said.
The trap was made by carefully concealed trip wires in the rubble of the trail, connected to bent poles that released the triple shafts under great tension. Durell walked carefully around the fallen log and saw that it had been chopped down only recently. The wood was fresh and clean. Anger filled hun as he heaved the roadblock out of the way. "Let's go."
The Rover became useless just below the plantation house. There was a deep gorge and a wooden bridge, and the banks over the rushing stream were dense with more bamboo. The house was clearly visible only a few hundred yards away with the trail distinctly outlined beyond it but vanishing into the jungle toward the misty hills. The rain hissed, poured, then streamed down with a suddenly heavier intensity.
"More trouble," Durell said.
"The bridge?" asked the Rajah.
"It's another trap. Get out of the car. Take the weapons and water. How far is it to your palace?"
"From here, perhaps ten miles, all uphill."
Durell studied the tall, gaunt old man. "Can you make it?"
"I believe so. I am not entirely decrepit."
There came a faint shout just then from the opposite side of the gorge. For a moment Durell saw nothing. Then the cry was repeated, and he heard a dim crashing in the brush. A girl came running toward the bridge.
It was Lily Fan.
"Durell!" she cried. "Help me!"
The Rajah started forward, but Durell put a hand on his arm. "Wait."
Lily Fan came to a halt just at the opposite end of the small bridge. The bridge was built of planks and tunbers, and although long out of use and vine-grown, it looked solid enough. The girl's long black hair was plastered to her head by the rain. Durell weighed the Uzi in his hand.
"Come over!" he caUed.
"It's George!" Her face was stricken. "Please, help us!"
"Where is he?"
"At the house! Bring the car!"
Durell toed at a rock in the path, put down the Uzi, lifted the rock, and weighed it in both hands. Then he hurled it onto the bridge. For the instant that it sailed through the air, Lily Fan stared in horror. Then she turned and ran, and as the heavy rock landed on the bridge planking, she flung herself down on the wet grass beyond the opposite end of the span.
The explosion shook the earth.
The bridge lifted itself intact; then all at once it disintegrated into flying timbers and planks amid a great gush of smoke and flame. Durell threw himself side wise, spotting moving shapes in the bamboo thickets across the gorge. He slanmied the Uzi into automatic and squeezed the trigger; the rifle jumped and racketed, spraying the bamboo with slugs. He thought he heard someone scream over there, but then splinters and broken planks of the bridge rained down around him. He threw himself over Pala Mir to shelter her from the flying debris. The explosion rolled over them. He heard the sharp, heavy thud of one of the Rover's hunting rifles and turned his head. The Rajah still stood on his feet, tall and straight, his white hair wet in the rain. A man in khaki suddenly lurched up out of the bamboo across the gorge and tumbled down the bank. Another appeared and started to run away up the trail. Durell gave the Uzi another burst and saw more movement, a flash of white—and then there was silence.
The bridge was gone.
Pala Mir struggled under him, and he stood up.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Grandpapa?"
"I am just fine, child," said the old man. His rifle was in the crook of his elbow. "You saw it was a trap, Durell?"
"The bridge was rigged to blow up even imder a single man's weight. I spotted the wire under the timbers."
Lily Fan still sprawled on the opposite edge of the ravine. She didn't move. Durell led the way down among the splintered remains of the bridge and climbed up toward the Chinese girl. She was still breathing. There was a gash on her forehead that bled freely, but it did not look serious. She moaned and rolled over, then looked up at him with wide eyes that reflected her fear.
"Please... I had to—"
"Who were those men?" he asked.
"Pao Thets. I'm not sure. They almost caught George at the plantation, and we became separated. They caught me and made me call to you to lure you onto the bridge."
"And where is George?"
"I don't know. He—he's like a demon. I never saw him like that before." Her mouth shook and she covered her face with her hands. "I'm sony. They said they would— they would do awful things to me—and shoot me afterward if I didn't obey their orders. I'm sorry."
"Where is George heading?"
She looked at the Rajah. "To the mountain palace."
"Do you know why?"
"George didn't talk much. He is acting like a madman. He said he had to get there first, that is all."
"Did he set the drangh traps for me?"
"No! No, he wouldn't do that!"
"Was it the Pao Thets?"
"I—I suppose so."
She leaned shakily against him. He could feel every contour of her small, ripe body through her wet clothes. A warm, rain-filled wind blew the bamboo around them. There was no trace of the guerrillas except for two dead men, sprawled on the trail. The Rajah examined them clinically.
"These are not Malays," he said. "They come from much farther north. Their uniforms suggest a well-organized military supply. Their weapons are Chinese."
Durell nodded. Lily Fan had recovered, and the wound on her forehead was only a deep scratch.
He picked up his Uzi. "All right, let's see if we can catch up to George."
22
The plantation house was empty and mournful in the persistent rain. From the knoll on which it stood, overgrown with vines and young saplings, the coastal lands below were lost in the blowing curtains of wetness.
Durell scouted the place with care but found no traces of anyone except for the filth and debris left by the Pao Thets, who must have camped here. George Hammond was not in sight.
Satisfied, he returned to the porch where the trio huddled against the rain.
"Why is George in such a hurry to get to the hills?" he asked Lily Fan.
She was trying to braid her wet hair. "I told you, he was—how do you say—like a man possessed. He said— he said he had the answers and could prove he was right."
"Right about what?"
"Whatever he was working on, against you."
"We weren't working against each other."
"He felt that way, after—" She looked slyly at Pala Mir. "After he caught us in bed. He thought the worst of it, naturally, seeing us like that."
Pala Mir sniffed. Durell did not look at the other girl. "Lily, why did he take you along?"
"I knew the way better than he. But the guerrillas were always ahead of us. He was—he was so angry. He killed some of them on the river, and he—well, he was like a tiger in the jungle. I thought once he—he would kill even me."
"Why?"
"Well, I—I had a hard time keeping up with him."
Arranging packs, canteens, and cartridge bands, Pala Mir kept aloof from the talk. The Rajah helped her in dignified silence. The old man gained stature and dignity by the moment, as if his old royal prerogatives were reasserted. Not the smallest question in Durell's mind was Pala Mir. She had been remote since they started, even though the trip had begim on her initiative. LUy Fan was a sly little vixen but maybe merely adolescent. Just the same, he decided to watch her every moment.
For some miles beyond the rubber farm, the road was open and clear, and they made good time. As they cUmbed above the coastal plain, the air became cooler, although the rain went on. Durell felt caught between two demands—the need for care, lest they walk into another ambush, and the pressure of time, as the day waned and the clouds and rain darkened the sky.
Except for the trail, the country became the densest jungle Durell had ever seen. Vines blocked their way; insects were a constant torment; snakes, monkeys, and brilliant birds slithered, flashed, and chattered aroimd them. By midaftemoon they had to wade upstream in a small, greenish river, and leeches attacked them while the rain became a heavy pressure on their backs.
Assignment White Rajah Page 13