Assignment - Manchurian Doll

by Edward S. Aarons

  “I do not think I can make it,” she whispered.

  “You must try.”

  She shook her head, swallowed. “Why concern yourself with me? I am more your enemy than Omaru. Why do you save me? I cannot help you.”

  “No matter. Can you walk now?”

  She drew a deep breath. “Yes. I will walk.”

  The wind whipped her tattered skirt around her legs. She held her torn blouse with one hand, but the flimsy material, soaked with sweat and blood, was poor protection against the chill air. Her breathing was ragged as they reached the last wooden steps to the dock. Durell halted her, holding her arm.

  “Wait.”

  There was no one on the path above or below. The two boats bobbed restlessly at their moorings.

  “We will have a bad storm,” Nadja gasped. Her teeth chattered. “It is only the beginning. I have seen such weather before. It can be frightening.”

  They reached the docks just as the alarm sounded, a siren making a whup-whup hooting somewhere high on the peak of the conical island. So Omaru was free, Durell thought grimly. Lights bloomed here and there, flooding various areas of the place with brightness. Nadja sucked in a discouraged breath. A spotlight suddenly spilled brilliance down the stairway where only darkness shrouded them before. Another spotlight went on where the two boats were moored.

  “It is too late,” the girl gasped. “We will be seen. They will shoot at us like targets in a gallery.”

  “This way.”

  She was slower than he, struggling against her pain. They had to cross the path above the dock, and it was now brightly lighted. Beyond, the island sloped sharply down and fell away in a small cliff above the dark, restless water, thirty yards from where the launches were moored. To run down the steps would expose them to marksmen, as Nadja predicted. He saw no choice but to cross the path quickly and dive into the shadows beyond. But Nadja guessed his plan and hesitated.

  “I do not know if I can swim—I am so exhausted—”

  “You have to try. I’ll help you.”

  “You could escape, if you were alone.”

  “But I came here just for you,” he said.

  She looked stunned. But she did not reply, except to nod that she was ready. They could not avoid being seen when they darted across the lighted path. But their crossing was too quick for the marksmen watching from above. They were in the darkness on the other side, smashing through thickets, when the machine gun rattled and sprayed the path behind them.

  “Jump!” Durell called.

  The land fell away from their feet and there was nothing but the dark, roiled water of the anchorage below. Durell let his impetus take him forward, out into the dark air, the wind and sky reeling about him. Nadja cried out and he glimpsed her falling, like a boneless doll, her skirt billowing up about her lifted arms as she dropped.

  Then he struck the water.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  His greatest fear was the danger of submerged rocks below. But the icy shock of his descent yielded only a deep plummeting fall, and then a reflex struggle took him back to the surface. He shook water from his hair and eyes and twisted about to orient himself. The two launches were nearby. The dark loom of the island’s precipitous shore seemed to lean dangerously overhead.

  He could not see Nadja.

  He called her name softly, then louder. There came a dim splashing and he swam a few strokes and saw her silvery hair against the black water. He caught her, put her grateful hand on his shoulder and swam toward the nearest launch.

  Two men ran down the steps, hopping and leaping the risers two and three at a time. Both held automatic rifles. One of them ran to the floodlight stanchions and turned the spotlight over the water. The other ran heavily on the echoing dock as Durell hauled himself into the launch and then turned to give Nadja a lift.

  She came up limp and dripping, her body soft and shuddering against him. He lowered her to the cushioned seat and lurched to the engine controls. The keys were in the ignition. He started the engine and the man on the dock shouted something that was drowned out in the sputtering roar. The man at the spotlight turned the probing beam over the boat. Durell ducked. Nadja was not quick enough, and the light shone on her bright hair. The man on the dock started chopping at the launch with his automatic rifle.

  The launch surged slowly forward. Wood splintered and the boat shuddered as half a dozen slugs smashed into the hull. Then they gathered speed, the bow lifted, and he saw they were heading out to sea. He grabbed the wheel and the speedy craft heeled far over and swept in a new course to the mainland lights of Akijuro. A few more bullets followed them from the shore. The spotlight swept past them and faltered away.

  The girl touched Durell’s shoulder.

  “We cannot get to the town landing. Look there!”

  He followed her pointing finger. The second boat was in motion, cutting across their course to intercept them. And a third vessel, much larger, evidently Omaru’s personal seagoing yacht, was moving at a more ponderous speed in the same direction.

  “There are some canals, to the left,” she said. “They go right into the town. Steer for them; I will guide you.”

  She stood beside him, her long hair plastered to her cheeks and throat in thick tendrils. Her wet, tattered clothing made her look naked. She shivered as her flesh pressed against him, and for a moment their eyes met. There was puzzlement and confusion under the pain in her eyes, and she moved away a little, pointing, so she no longer touched him.

  “There, to the left again. Can you see?”

  “There seems to be no place to land.”

  “When we get closer, you will see the canals. Take the biggest one. There is a restaurant right on the waterfront there. Go past it.”

  He nodded, then abruptly swung the wheel hard as something huge and black loomed ahead of their plunging boat. It was a fishing trawler, showing only a dim gleam of light in its afterhouse. The launch sped by its anchor chain with only inches to spare.

  A machine gun chattered and flared from the pursuing launch. Durell strained to see through the murky darkness. Houses slowly materialized on the shore, a few block warehouse sheds, some fences built on the stone breakwater, a few feathery trees. He saw the canal entrance then, like the mouth of a tunnel, black under the arch of a wooden bridge. A fenced terrace and the gleam of a tiled roof indicated the restaurant Nadja had mentioned. Lights glowed there. There were willow trees on both banks, dipping their branches into the black canal.

  The other launch was cutting across to intercept them when the police boat happened along. Afterward, Durell wondered if it was a lucky accident, or not. He never knew. The patrol craft was twice the size of Omaru’s launches, and it proceeded at a pedestrian pace, its spotlight fixed dead ahead.

  But its presence stopped Omaru’s men from using their weapons again.

  Durell throttled down and let the boat surge into the canal. The bridge slid over them, dripping with moisture. The stone banks rose high on either side. The willow trees whispered, brushing the top of the launch.

  He looked back. There was nothing to see.

  He could hear the thrum of Omaru’s boat against the deep beat of the harbor patrol craft. He slowed down to cut the wash of their wake against the peaceful canal banks. Houses lifted on either side, dark and asleep. A few lights gleamed, but the mutter of their idling engine was softened and awakened no one. Nadja moved closer to him again, shivering.

  “Take the first canal to the right now. I do not think they will dare to follow us into the heart of town.”

  “They might. Omaru is just angry enough.”

  “I do not understand it yet,” she said quietly. “I thought he was working for your people, was he not?”

  “We used him in the past—but not this time. Washington decided to end the association,” he said grimly.

  “Yes. I almost forgot who and what you are.”

  “Is it so terrible, Nadja?”

  “I do not know what to
think. I was taught that all imperialist agents were murderers and monsters, enemies of society. But you are just like—just—”

  “Just a man,” Durell said. “Quite human. Two eyes, arms, legs, head and heart, all the usual appurtenances.”

  “But not an ordinary man. I wish we were not enemies.”

  “We don’t have to be.”

  “There is no other way.” She did not look at him. “I am grateful that you saved my life and kept that woman from torturing me. I never thought I would be treated like that by my own people. I—I am all confused. I am grateful to you, but I cannot help you. Perhaps I would, I don’t know. But I cannot. I cannot seem to remember what you want.”

  “Perhaps you will, later.”

  She shook her head. “I do not want to, I think.”

  “Not even to save Alexi Kaminov?”

  She was silent. He turned the launch into the intersecting canal, a smaller and shallower one than the first, with many small, wooden bridges crossing it. Here and there the channel was almost blocked by moored fishing craft tied to the stone embankments. But more lights shone ahead, from the center of the town, glimpsed through the waving screen of willow branches dipping in the water. The air was warmer here, sheltered from the storm brewing at sea. Durell felt as if, in using the canals, he had slipped back several centuries into the past, into the old Japan, a land of dreaming isolation. The houses were small and old, the bridges arched with delicate precision over the dark water—

  He almost ran into the waiting boat before he saw it. It was Omaru’s launch, and it had debarked men on the canal banks to form an ambush. They were premature, when one man suddenly opened fire, heedless of the sleeping neighborhood. The shot was Durell’s first warning. But he needed no other.

  He slammed the launch into reverse, but their momentum made it impossible to back out of the canal. Their stem crashed into a fishing boat tied to the bank under a tree. “Get out,” Durell snapped to the girl. “Quick!”

  He helped her jump into the boat they had crashed and worked his way forward to the rope ladder that hung down from the embankment. A bullet splashed on the stone wall at his hand. Nadja stumbled, wavered, and he extended a hand to haul her bodily upward. Then they crouched for a moment on the bank of the canal.

  The shadows under the willow tree offered them shelter for a moment. A narrow street paralleled the canal, and tea-shops fronted the sidewalk. They were all closed. He looked for a parked car, but there was nothing except a hand cart drawn across an alley entrance. He pushed it aside and dragged the stumbling girl into the dark alley after him. A shout and a querulous, seeking complaint came from behind them. Another gun cracked, but it did not seem to Durell that the shot was aimed at them.

  The alley was narrow and dark, reeking with unfamiliar smells. A high board fence hemmed them in, and for a few seconds he wondered if he had plunged into a blind trap. Then he saw a glimmer of light at the far end and he pulled the girl that way. Too late, he saw the light abruptly blocked by a man who appeared there. There was no chance to check their flight. A shout came from behind, then Durell hurtled into the newcomer, his fist driving at his throat. The man shouted in protest, reeled aside, and came back in a defensive posture that Durell luckily recognized before he struck again.

  “Eliot?”

  “Hey, Cajun—take it easy! You pack a mean wallop!” “Omaru’s men are after us—”

  “You got the girl, hey?” Eliot laughed. “Looks like you stuck your fist into a hornet’s nest, though.”

  Durell looked back. The alley was dark and brooding and silent. Too silent, too dark. He pushed the girl aside against the damp brick wall.

  “How did you get here, Eliot?”

  “We were waiting for you on the waterfront when we saw the fireworks on Omaru’s island. Tagashi scattered some people around—he picked them up in town, local cops, I think —but Omaru’s got a small army fanning out around us now.”

  “Can we get out?” Durell asked.

  “I don’t know. The girl looks pretty beat, huh?” Eliot took a deep breath. “Take her down this alley to the next street, Sam, and turn right. There’s a car waiting. Another one of Tagashi’s relatives is the driver. The kid, Yuki, is there, too, busted nose and all. Worried about you. Get to that car, and you and Nadja are safe.”

  “I hate to leave you here alone, Eliot.”

  Eliot Barnes grinned. “Tagashi’s folks are coming up fast. I’ll be fine.”

  Durell hesitated. Eliot looked tall and lean, as homey as apple pie with his straw hair and freckles and Midwest accent. He looked tough and capable and completely out of place in this back alley of a provincial Japanese seacoast town. Durell looked back again. The alley was still dark, still brooding. He thought he saw a shadow slide along the black wall, but he wasn’t sure. He felt reluctant to leave Eliot here. Then he looked at Nadja and saw she had spent the last of her reserve strength. It was a miracle she had managed to come this far.

  A boat whistle hooted dimly, coming to them from all directions in the alley. Misty fog touched them, smelling of mud banks and the sea.

  “Go on, Cajun,” Eliot urged. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Durell took the girl’s hand and they walked on as fast as she could go. She stumbled with every step, and her breathing was ragged. She had gone dull with fatigue, insensitive and not caring what happened to her now.

  The car was waiting where Eliot said it would be. The driver jumped out, but Yuki was faster. She ran to Durell and paused, hesitated, then looked at Nadja sheepishly. The tape gleamed whitely across the bridge of her nose.

  “Come. Hurry. It is all arranged,” Yuki said.

  Durell pushed Nadja into the car. She seemed unaware of him now. “Take care of her, Yuki, understand? Take her to your father and keep her safe, no matter what happens. Can I trust you with her now?”

  “Yes, Durell-san. I am sorry for my behavior before.” She saw him turn away. “You are not coming with us?”

  “I’m going back for Eliot.”

  “Then I will wait. My father ordered me to wait.”

  “All right. I’ll be right back.”

  He ran back to the alley where Eliot had posted himself as a rear guard against Omaru’s gunmen. The streets were quiet, asleep, the local people unaware of the private war raging silently in the alleys of their town. Durell took his gun out, but he did not know if it would fire after his swim in the waters off Omaru’s island. His wet clothing hampered him, clung icily to his limbs. He turned into the alley and tripped, stumbled over something, recovered and spun around.

  Nothing.

  He looked down and saw Eliot Barnes sprawled on his face on the cobblestones. Eliot still had his gun in his hand, but he hadn’t fired it, or Durell would have heard the sound. He looked up and down the alley, suddenly cold. He saw no one. Everything was silent. He knelt beside Eliot and turned the straw-haired man over so he could see the SEATO agent’s face.

  “El? Eliot?”

  He felt colder. The bloody, gaping mouth of a knife wound in Eliot Barnes’ throat smiled a smile of grotesque death at him. It had been swift and sudden—and unnecessary. He could not imagine how it had been done, but Eliot had been taken by surprise, in the five brief minutes he had been alone here. His throat was cut from ear to ear, and there was a dark puddle of still-hot blood on the alley stones.

  Omaru had exacted his first payment for revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In Durell’s business, there was always the problem of keeping things quiet. Ideally, the operation of K Section’s field force should leave not so much as a ripple in the area of activity. No local police alarms could be risked, no news items printed of mysterious actions, no trace of the apparatus’ objectives could be left for the curious eye and probing mind. The enemy could be anywhere. The enemy could be anyone.

  Leaving Eliot Barnes’ body in an alley of Akijuro would make more than a ripple in the international news dispatches. Questions might
be asked in the Japanese Diet. The Japanese security people would have to respond publicly.

  Durell picked up Eliot’s gun.

  “I’m sorry, El,” he whispered.

  He knelt quickly and flipped open the SEATO man’s coat, and ripped all identification from the body. He took Eliot’s papers and stuffed them in his own pocket, pulled off the coat, since it betrayed its American origin, and wrapped it in a tight ball. He took keys, wallet, passport, American change and currency, Japanese yen notes.

  The alley was quiet and somber. There was no trace of the murderers. He wondered where Omaru’s men had gone, and why they apparently had called off the chase. Then some of the questions were answered when he heard the quick slap of footsteps running toward him in the alley.

  He stood up, straddling Eliot’s body. It was Tagashi. The tall Japanese looked at Eliot without emotion. Durell could read nothing in the man’s face.

  “Mr. Barnes was a likeable young man,” Tagashi said softly. “It is too bad he was so careless.”

  “Yes. Can you arrange something about him?” Durell was angry, but he could not direct his inner rage against the crop-headed Japanese. “He has to be disposed of quietly.”

  “Of course. My men have covered the neighborhood. But I do not think we will find Omaru now.”

  “I want him,” Durell said flatly.

  “Not now, Durell-san. I know how you feel. I can arrange for the police to question the shooting at his villa, but beyond such surface action, we can do no more.”

  “We can close down his operation now,” Durell said.

  “And delay our trip to get Kaminov?” Tagashi brushed his thick, black mustache. “I do not have good news for you,

  I am afraid. It is something beyond our control. I speak of the weather. There are typhoon warnings out for the North China Sea. The fishermen report high seas and much damage to their trawlers. We could spend a day or two, waiting for the storm to subside, and use the time for Omaru, of course, but—”

  “A day or two may be too late,” Durell said harshly. “We can’t spend it, I agree with you, wasting time on Omaru.”