Assignment- 13th Princess

by Will B Aarons

  Finally the major spoke: “We will maintain the present arrangement. It’s too late to change, really.”

  “All right, Major,” Durell rasped. “Have it your way. Just remember: I’m supposed to get Princess Ayla out of Dhubar with as few ripples as possible.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to get her out,” Major Rabinovitch replied. His bitter eyes seemed almost empty of light.

  “What are you getting at?” Durell demanded. He did not like the feeling that was growing between his shoulders.

  “Use your imagination.”

  “No, you tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” The major hunched his shoulders. “Just that stability in Dhubar is vital to Israel’s national interest.”

  “And you would assassinate the princess to gain it.”

  “I didn’t say that, Cajun.”

  “Don’t even think it,” Durell said, his voice low and even. He turned to Dara. “Understand?”

  She smiled and widened her eyes. “Of course, Sam, darling.”

  He could not have said whether there was mockery in her submissiveness. He spoke to Rabinovitch: “What is Dara’s mission?”

  “To gather intelligence. You are going to Dhubar under cover of a diplomat. As your wife, she will use her cover to penetrate the diplomatic community, particularly the Arab missions—-they can’t resist a woman who shows her face in public, even if they lock their own away.”

  “I may not be there very long,” Durell said.

  “If you leave, we will call it an extended temporary assignment. Dara can stay behind until she has established an espionage network. The rest will be routine maintenance.”

  “It sounds innocent enough,” Durell said.

  “Of course.” There was no innocence in the major’s bitter eyes.

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  “Yes. Except that you will find Dara more than willing to assist you in, ah, removing Princess Ayla.”

  Dara spoke. “I’ll help—any way I can.”

  “That,” Durell said, “is what worries me.”

  Next, Major Rabinovitch explained that he would be in Dhubar briefly and where he could be found. After that, there was a showing of films taken secretly of Sheik Zeid’s party when they were in London for the birth of his son. Then Durell and Dara drove back to the Hertford.

  It had been a long day, and Durell was weary.

  He almost overlooked the big car parked a few lengths away on Oxford Street—the black and silver Rolls Royce.

  Chapter 3

  Durell stopped under the high brass awning before the glass door of the hotel, the rain splattering wrinkles of light on the sidewalk and cars sloshing past in the street. He stared back over his shoulder at the Rolls. Its windshield was a pattern of bright rivulets against a black void. Someone could be inside it. Or in the lobby. Or waiting in his room.

  Before he had time to weigh the matter further, a voice called: “Mr. Durell?”

  He swung his face the other way, saw a dark, out-sized figure step into the box of light that fell from the entranceway. A chain of droplets hung from the rim of his hat, as if he had waited here for some time. His thick, black mustache glistened in fierce crescents that almost touched his high cheekbones.

  Durell recognized him as Volkan, Prince Tahir’s bodyguard.

  “What do you want?” Durell asked.

  “Princess Nadine has received your message.”

  “And?”

  “She wishes to see you—simdi, now.” The Turk waved a hand that looked as if it could palm Durell’s head comfortably.

  Durell followed the gesture with his eye and saw the gleaming Rolls murmur up to the entrance. The driver, who appeared to be English and probably had been hired with the car, looked straight ahead. The car’s engine was a whisper above its fat white sidewalls.

  Dara looked up at Durell. “This is marvelous, darling. I get to meet Princess Nadine tonight!”

  “I didn’t think it would be too soon for you, dear,” Durell replied in a dry tone. “But first, don’t you think this gentleman should explain why he played tag with us all over town?”

  Dara lowered her eyes. “It would be sweet of him,” she said.

  Durell’s eyes went hard against the big Turk’s face. “All right, buster, let’s hear it.”

  “It is so simple, Durell Bey,”—Volkan’s cheeks went taut—“we do not take unexpected guests lightly. Perhaps you will tell me your business in London.”

  “Perhaps I won’t.”

  Dara tugged Durell’s elbow. “Let’s get in the car, dear.”

  “Yes, kafi, enough.” Volkan thrust his fists into the pockets of his raincoat where they stood out like coconuts. “We mustn’t keep the princess waiting.” He turned with a swift agility that was surprising for his bulk and opened the car door for them.

  Inside was a hushed fragrance of leather and expensive woods and carpeting. Volkan rode beside the driver, beyond a glass partition.

  “What’s she like, Sam, this Princess Nadine?”

  “Bright, headstrong, self-centered, beautiful.”

  “How did you meet her? I thought movie stars were awfully inaccessible.”

  “Through a friend, Deirdre Padgett.” Something small seemed to tumble inside Durell’s chest, as always, at the thought of Dee. Their paths crossed seldom enough, but their love had never diminished. “She was writing a fashion story,” he continued. “Miss Carroll modeled the clothes. It was in Nice. I happened to be in the neighborhood—”

  “To see Miss Padgett?”

  “My assignment was in the area, so, yes, I was seeing Miss Padgett. She and Nadine became friends. I saw Nadine several times after that. She came to the U.S. occasionally. I never met her family—or that goon up front.” Durell nodded at the back of Volkan’s thick neck.

  Dara slid close to him, knees together, an arm folded through his. She seemed suddenly small in the big car and the presence of the big men. The windshield wipers arced silently to the front of their vision. Traffic had diminished markedly with the late hour.

  “Sam?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t so smart to crawl into this hearse.”

  “We won’t know for sure until we see what comes of it.”

  “I don’t like the way he followed us, earlier. He may not even be taking us to Princess Nadine’s.” Her hand made a tentative movement toward the reassurance of the derringer concealed in her bosom.

  Gently, Durell pressed her hand back down to her lap.

  He blew a short breath through his nose, and said: “It’s blindman’s buff. You can’t win if you don’t play.”

  As the Rolls lumbered deeper into Mayfair, Durell’s mind went back to the movies of Sheik Zeid and his party. They had shown Zeid and Princess Ayla and Ayla’s parents, Nadine and Tahir. Two Turkish bodyguards had been in evidence, Volkan and a man named Yilmaz, who stayed close to Princess Ayla. But for the bodyguards, the group might have been any wealthy family on a holiday. All wore Western clothing. Sheik Zeid, a short, solid figure with a toothbrush mustache also wore a Bedouin ghutra headcloth with his tailored suit. An enterprising Shin Beth agent had obtained a sequence of Princess Ayla at Regent’s Park, in blue jeans, shortly after her release from the hospital. Durell supposed the jeans were a holdover from her undergraduate days at Hunter College, where she had majored in political science. She was startlingly beautiful, endowed with her movie-star mother’s figure and her father’s dark almond eyes. Her black hair glistened like a sequined cape.

  Princess Ayla hadn’t seemed very happy in those films, Durell reflected. She had looked tense and tired and had done little to return the small gestures of affection displayed by Sheik Zeid—the little courtesy, a touch of a hand, a slow smile.

  There had been no doubt, however, of the fondness she had shown for her mother, who had lost none of the good looks once referred to as “platinum lightning.” Nadine was smaller than her daughter a
nd perfectly proportioned, with pearly skin, round blue eyes, and a stubborn chin.

  The tall frame of Prince Tahir had loomed over the group. He carried himself with the bearing of a born aristocrat and seemed to favor ascots and crushable wool fedoras. His chiseled face was dark and brooding beneath charcoal brows, and his lips bore a twist that was imperial and pernicious.

  The Rolls parked in front of a large brick and stone dwelling of Victorian vintage. Murky light came as if from a distant room through draperies that were drawn not quite closed. Water trickled down the gutter, splattered in weighty drops from leaf to leaf in a stubby, much-pruned quince tree as they waited behind the big Turk while he opened the door.

  They entered single file, Volkan stepping aside for Dara first, then Durell. The Turk felt as big as the Tower of London behind Durell’s back as they walked through a carpeted entryway into a dimly lighted hallway and stopped before high double doors with ornate brass and crystal knobs. Volkan, saying nothing, reached past them and twisted a knob, pushed a door, nodded them inside.

  At first all Durell saw in the low light was a large parlor, immaculately kept and last furnished about the turn of the century. There were dark velvet draperies, massive footstools with gargoyles’ legs, potted palms, and even a gilded cupid that bore a frosted fishbowl lighting fixture on its head. On the left an organ cabineted in wood dark as the rainy night occupied a space slightly smaller than a London bus.

  Then Nadine stepped into view, breathtaking in a dress of black panne velvet that was long and tight, outlining the curve of hip and thigh, and open-toed silver slippers.

  The chromed and elaborately engraved .25 automatic she held could have been spun from her platinum hair.

  “Now,” she said, “I’m going to rid myself of a spy.”

  Chapter 4

  A pinched gasp caught in Dara’s throat.

  Durell took no time to think about it.

  He knocked her roughly aside and leaped for Nadine, aware of Volkan’s hulk behind him. Nadine went sprawling, silver heels kicking the air, and he was on top of her, the gun enfolded in his hand, his thumb behind the trigger. Skin prickled at the back of Ms neck as he expected Volkan to pounce. He could only hope that Dara would cover for him. Nadine’s breath came into his face in angry squirts as they grappled, and he smelled her hot toilet fragrances, his nose close to the smooth stem of her neck.

  It only lasted a second.

  “Sam—? Sam!” Nadine’s voice was exasperated.

  He froze at the odd tone of her words, looked into her face, saw half-moons of white that curved around enormous blue irises.

  Then the room exploded with Volkan’s laughter. Durell twisted a bewildered face up at the mountainous Turk. “She meant me, Durell Bey.” Volkan bellowed with glee, held his sides as he shook and heaved.

  Dara stood stiffly next to the dark wainscotting of the wall, a hand over her breast as if in fright—but Durell knew the derringer was beneath that hand and that Volkan was luckier than he could have imagined.

  “She meant that I am a spy, Durell Bey,” Volkan gasped. He rubbed the moist slits of his eyes. “She doesn’t like me very much,” he said.

  Nadine scrambled to her feet, smoothed her dress. Springs of hair had been wrenched from her immaculately piled coiffure and stood out at the back of her neck. Her face was flushed and angry. She had surrendered the .25, a baby Heckler & Koch, to Durell.

  “I knew you’d come, Sam,” she snapped, “but I didn’t think it would be like this.”

  “Me neither.” Durell studied Volkan, then looked back at her.

  “I mean her no harm.” Volkan’s laughing fit had passed. He spoke soberly now. “Prince Tahir has left me to watch over her. She is a difficult woman.”

  Nadine shouted. “He’s spying on me, I tell you!” She twisted, and her eyes darted about the room. She looked as if she wanted something to throw.

  “Relax, Nadine,” Durell said. “Get hold of yourself.”

  “Evet—yes—relax,” Volkan seconded. He had his hat off now. The low light glowed greasily on his shaven head.

  “You get out,” Durell said.

  “Me?” Volkan drew himself up until his shadow seemed to cover half the wall, and his eyes narrowed to dark slits. “Princess Nadine is my responsibility. I have orders—”

  Durell made the little .25 evident in his hand and spoke in a low voice. “Get the hell out.”

  Volkan’s eyes clouded with uncertainty, but before he could respond, Nadine cried: “No, Sam—don’t let him go. He’s up to something. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any of them.”

  Durell had no way of knowing how much of this was hysterics, dramatics, how much the truth. Certainly Nadine was frightened. She had fought her way up from an Alabama sharecropper’s shack to the palaces of the glittering Mediterranean world. He had known she was tough. He had never seen her scared, but she was now. And she reacted like a trapped alley cat.

  He tried to calm her. “Listen. He’s leaving now. He won’t harm you.”

  Volkan’s tone was serious. “I would not,” he said. “I am only obeying—”

  “All right! Get out!” Nadine screamed. “Get out, you—you oaf!”

  An ash tray flashed through the air, and Volkan flinched as it crashed against the wall an inch from his ear. She got her hands around another missile, a vase this time, but Volkan dodged through the door a fraction before it splintered behind him.

  The momentary silence rang in Durell's ears.

  Then Nadine breathed deeply and spoke in a tired voice. “You shouldn’t have let him go. We could have taken him. Well, at least you’re here, thank God. Got a cigarette?”

  “Sorry.”

  She went about the room, opened and slammed cabinet doors. “Damn Tahir! He took them all, every last one.”

  Suddenly she held Durell’s lapels. “He’s always trying to run my life. Damn Turk! Help me, Sam. They’ve worn me down.” She sighed against his chest. She did not look worn down. She looked twenty years younger than her age, Durell thought.

  Abruptly: “Who’s that girl?”

  Durell’s gaze followed Nadine’s slender arm and saw it was pointed at Dara, who stood and looked not quite amused in the shadows near the door through which Volkan had darted.

  “She’s my wife,” Durell said.

  Nadine’s face turned up, her cheek against his chest. “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You always loved Deirdre.”

  “It’s none of your business, Nadine.”

  Nadine’s big blue eyes stared cruelly at Dara for a moment.

  “How do you do, Princess Nadine,” Dara ventured.

  “Can the princess bit, honey.” She took a sad breath and shook her lovely head. “Sam, it’s unreal to have honest-to-God people around me for a change.”

  Tears came into her eyes, and Durell wondered if they were authentic or the product of a mind that sometimes manufactured what it wished to bolster its fantasies. He patted her back gently. “Sit down,” he said.

  “Hell, I’m not an invalid.” She pushed away.

  “Look, if you don’t like Volkan, why don’t you fire him?”

  She made a sound of pretended amusement. “I can’t. He’s Tahir’s man.” An edge of anger returned to her voice. “He spies on me, Sam. They’re plotting to kill me. I don’t fit in, so they’re going to slit my throat and stuff me in a sewer.”

  “Fit in with what?” Dara questioned. She moved toward Nadine, leaving the door for the first time.

  Nadine’s bosom lifted in a dramatic sigh, and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, I wish I knew. Sit down, honey.” She waved a limp hand toward a garish Victorian sofa.

  “It’s Tahir’s doing; darling little Ayla finally got her prince, now Tahir’s strutting around like a king.”

  “Is he in the house?” Durell asked. Dara sat on the edge of the sofa, primly erect.

  “He’s gone. They’re all gone. I’m all that’s left.
Me and the gorilla.” She made a long face and sighed again. “You see, there’s no place in Tahir’s future for me. We don’t even_ live together anymore. He’s jealous of my influence with Ayla, though. That’s why he doesn’t divorce me. I could call it quits, I suppose, and go live in the States. But who would call me princess then? And it’s too late to go back to the movies.” She smiled wistfully.

  “Go to Istanbul. You have a house there,” Durell said.

  “Yes!” Nadine listened intently.

  “But first contact Princess Ayla for me. Tell her to expect me—I’ll be in Dhubar tomorrow.”

  “Shh!” Nadine pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t mention that too loudly.” She rolled her big blue eyes toward the door. “Volkan will be listening,” she whispered.

  Durell lowered his voice. “You’ll call her?”

  “Sure. She didn’t want to go there in the first place. Tahir made her do it.”

  “Forced her?”

  “Bullied her.”

  “What about Sheik Zeid?”

  Nadine showed her small palms. “He thinks she wanted to go—he offered to allow her to stay here for the time being.”

  “It doesn’t look too bad, then,” Durell mused. “I’ll get her out safely and quietly.”

  “Can you do that? I know you’re with the government. . . ."

  “There are ways. Once out, she must contact Sheik Zeid and explain that she left of her own free will. Of course, she could leave on her own, if she’d just tell him how she feels.”

  “But she won’t! That’s the trouble. She’s scared to death of her father, and he’s there. This is the only way.” She fell back on the overstuffed couch as if exhausted. “I just thank my lucky stars for you, Sam.”