There was a moment of hot silence between the two.
Durell did not move.
The frenzied villagers roared beyond the courtyard.
"It would be kinder to kill him than to let the villagers tear your old friend to pieces with their hands.” Maximov emphasized "old friend,” as if making an accusation.
"Ho! You have much to learn, Lieutenant—if you live, if you survive in the business. For now, we have received new instructions, and you will follow my orders in carrying them out. Take the others and go. Go quickly.”
There was no arguing with Skoll this time. Durell heard the slight sounds of men moving away, overshadowed immediately by the cries outside. He glanced up.
Skoll was watching his face.
Skoll grinned and turned to catch up with the others.
Durell kept his eyes on them as they hustled up the stairs and scampered out of sight, across rooftops. His mind was filled with relief and burdened with apprehension at the same time. Skoll had given him a chance, however minute. Maybe it was only a gesture, for old times’ sake, but it was not the sort of gesture a man of his professionalism could have risked, unless—
Durell did not want to think it, but he had no alternative.
For some reason that Durell could not guess, Cesar Skoll seemed to act like a man who had been dealt a royal flush.
He had only a moment to wonder where the Russians were headed, when suddenly he recognized the noise of a door splintering. He was almost too weak and groggy to run. But he tried. From the side of his eye he saw a torrent of screaming forms tumble through the shattered door and spill into the courtyard. The faces were crazed with anger and bloodlust in the radiance of swinging lanterns and dancing torches. Chickens squawked and ran, fluttering their wings. The din rose to a nightmarish pitch when the villagers saw Durell. They threw stones, sticks, whatever came to hand. Durell jerked right, dodged left, the missiles raining on him through the orange light. He could taste death, but still he ran, aware of the closing trample of the mob. He reached the stairs, his only hope of escape, started up. A hand reached out, snatched his ankle. He kicked, lost his footing, reeled and glimpsed below the swarm of upreaching hands, the twisted faces greedy for blood.
Then he fell, and they were all over him for an instant, beating, kicking, clawing.
A gun cracked and dust and pebbles stung away from the steps above.
The men raised up from him and stared at the pockmarked steps.
"Release him!” a voice commanded.
The mob parted, fell back, cursed and spat. Durell saw a thin, curly-haired man in khakis. He was obviously Egyptian. On his belt was a small leather holster with a flap and clip pocket. In his hand was a tiny .32 automatic.
The man held the gun out nervously and spoke to Durell. "Come with me, effendi.”
Durell did not know what to make of it, but this was no place to discuss the matter. He rose shakily to his feet, aching and sore from head to toe, his mind still muddled.
Outside, the man opened the door of a Volkswagen sedan, and Durell saw that he had a companion in the back seat. The two resembled each other. "Into the car, please,” the first man said, keeping his eyes on the crowd that had swarmed out after them. He switched the aim of his gun back and forth over the snarling faces. Durell got into the front passenger seat; the other man came around, scooted behind the wheel, started the car. The mob came out into the street behind them, still shaking fists and cursing, as they drove through the village on an unpaved lane. Then they went right, toward headlamps that streaked north and south on International Route 44.
Durell began to get nervous, his bruises almost forgotten. "Where are we going?” he asked, in Arabic.
"That depends.”
Durell said nothing for a moment and watched the navigation lights of ships on the Suez Canal. At this point the canal paralleled the highway, along with old Route 4, on which the Learjet had landed further south, and a railway. He had survived the Russians and escaped the fellahin; his worst fear now was the evil spin of fortune that might rake away his cover and hand him over to the Egyptians. It could jeopardize everything the United States had done to win the trust of both sides and bring peace to the Mideast.
"You speak with an American accent,” the driver said. He held the wheel in a casual grip. "What is your name, please?”
Durell felt his hopes fade. All he could do was remain silent. They knew. They were playing cat and mouse, but they knew. He watched the other guardedly, all too aware of the second man behind him.
"You do not wish to answer?” the driver asked, softly. Not waiting for a reply, he continued: "You have papers, effendi?"
Durell had recovered his mental faculties sufficiently to say: "Lost.”
"But you are American.” It was a statement, not a question.
"The people in the village took everything I had,” Durell said. "I got off a cruise ship in Ismailia, had a few drinks, woke up in the desert. I don’t know what happened.”
Great salt marshes spread out on either side of the highway, which ran straight to the northern horizon. The moon was rising, its light sparking on the watery wasteland. The ships in the canal reminded Durell of the Nereid and Lazeishvili. He supposed Link had panicked, to strand him here like this. At least he had got out with the Russian. Durell had been deaf and blind to what was happening back on Rhodes, of course, but if there were any efficiency at all in the HRC’s organization, Lazeishvili must be tucked safely away by now.
So why had Cesar Skoll seemed so pleased?
What "new instructions” had the KGB Colonel received?
"We had reports of gunfire in the area of the canal, not far north of al-Ballah, two nights ago,” the driver said.
"I have no gun.”
"I make no accusations,” the man said, his tone mild.
This made no sense, Durell thought in confusion.
The driver said: "You have no papers, either. I am wondering now—I have read much, preparing to raise myself in our great new republic—and I am wondering how it is that heroes like our President and the men around him know when to change their minds and when not to. I admit that I am yet too simple for such subtleties.”
"I don’t know what you are getting at,” Durell said.
"Well, my career is with the government, you see—”
Durell felt a tremor of alarm, but was careful not to show it. "So I supposed,” he said.
"—in the Mahabeth, the Intelligence service, to be exact, and I must learn to think like a statesman if I am to rise. I must learn to change, but I don’t know—the American-supported Israelis left me a piece of artillery shrapnel to carry in my back . . .”
Durell was thinking the worst had happened. Egyptian Intelligence. They could stop the car and shoot him beside the road. Nobody would ask questions. With more repercussions, in the larger view, would be a mock, show trial, replete with screaming media coverage to inflame the Arab world.
"How did you find me?” he asked. The lights of Port Said rose on the horizon, beyond a glimmering corner of Lake Manzala.
"The local disturbance, finally. But we had been searching the area since the gunfire was heard two nights ago, because strange persons were reported in the vicinity.” He paused, glanced noncommittally at Durell, and said: "We would have wished to board and inspect a freighter called the Nereid, which was later reported to have been the scene of the disturbance, but it was out of the canal and beyond our reach by the time we knew.”
"Interesting, but I’m only a tourist,” Durell said. It was the only deception he had, and he was stuck with it. They could tear the story to pieces, of course, given a little while. He hadn’t even a ticket stub to substantiate it. But it might buy time—if they meant to let him live.
"It is strange to be helping an American, after years of suspicion and mistrust,” the driver said.
"Helping . . . ?” Durell kept his face bland.
"By delivering you to the American consul in P
ort Said, as I have been ordered to do—provided you are a certain Samuel C. Durell.”
It might be a trick, but he decided to take the chance. He kept his eyes on the road, as he said: "I am Sam Durell.”
The driver turned a brief smile on him. "Peace,” he said.
Durell just sank down in the seat, exhausted.
13
Durell was escorted around Egyptian customs the next afternoon and flown to Rhodes, the sole passenger on a US courier plane. He still wore the same suit, with its torn shoulder seams, a thin rent in one knee, but at least it had been dry-cleaned. He’d decided to forgo shopping for another in Port Said, in the circumstances. On Rhodes, any passport embarrassment was negated when a ground crewman flagged his plane onto a parking apron where a limousine awaited him.
He was somewhat baffled by this display of international amity. So far no one had told him anything. All he knew was that somebody high up had pulled strings.
Sharing the back seat of the big Mercedes that whisked him through a side gate toward Rhodes Town was General Dickinson McFee. He wore a dark gray, vested suit, blackish maroon tie with pinprick polka dots. His voice was without emotion, as he said: "The police have given you forty-eight hours grace, thanks to our friends in Greek Intelligence. But you still are the prime suspect, Samuel.” Nobody else called Durell that.
"Panagiotes is alive, sir. I saw him at the airport, just before we left for Egypt.”
"We know he’s alive. But two men died at his villa. Off the record, our Greek friends are willing to believe you had no part in it. But they cannot afford to appear lax in pressing their investigation. If it hits the papers that an American spy was involved, and that they let him off the hook, well . . .”
"It’s forty-eight hours, then.”
McFee nodded slightly. "They will risk holding off that long. It should be no problem, of course; you should be gone long before then. If not, they will book you on suspicion. They can hold you indefinitely. Our agency will be unable to help you.” His sigh was one of displeasure, as with a clock that refused to keep time. "I’m afraid we’ve lost considerable leverage with the Greeks as well as the Turks in the aftermath of the Cyprus fiasco.”
Durell slumped back in the velour seat, a glum expression on his face. Beyond the closed windows the favored island of the sun god Helios sparkled under a radiant sky. Monte Smith, named for an Englishman who spied from that mountain on Napoleon’s fleet, bulged over the eastern limits of Rhodes Town, a few kilometers ahead.
McFee regarded him gravely. "It’s nearly over,” he said.
"If Lazeishvili is here.”
"Why shouldn’t he be?”
Durell didn’t answer. McFee knew the general outline of what had transpired at the canal, because he had talked briefly with Durell by phone the night before. Why not, indeed? The conclusion that Link had brought the dissident here, placing him under the HRC’s protection, was logical. Even inevitable. But Durell, remembering his encounter with Colonel Cesar Skoll, took little comfort in it. He switched to the subject of the Greek millionaire. "You said you knew Panagiotes was alive?” he questioned.
"We suspected it. You see, the body found in the house has been identified.”
"Who was it?”
"An American seaman, Charles Kirkwood Cullinane.”
"The same Cullinane who worked for the HRC? The man who smuggled Aleksei Lazeishvili aboard theNereid?” Durell asked in surprise.
"Exactly. Any idea what he was doing there?” Durell’s eyes went dark. "No—but I’d give anything to know.”
"I’ve been looking into the background of this Costa Panagiotes.” He spoke the name in a severe, rather flat voice, the tone of a physician discussing a possibly cancerous tumor. "He owns the Nereid, you know.”
"Yes, sir—Marty told me.”
"There is more. He’s an arms smuggler—that is how he accumulated such wealth. He came out of the Lebanese civil war with a fortune.”
Durell remembered the lonely cove, almost landlocked below the man’s villa. "The cove where he harbors his yacht is practically invisible,” he said, "a natural for smuggling.”
"He still traffics with parties in the Levant and various African states. He may have other interests of a similar nature—narcotics, illicit art treasure. There was no time to run them down.”
"Not very savory,” Durell said.
"He’s a grabber, motivated solely by greed, it would seem, but very conscious of appearances. Not an ordinary hood, by any means.” They had entered the suburbs of Rhodes Town and were passing Italianate villas in a profusion of shrubs and flowers. McFee took no notice, continuing: "His family was poor, but at least there were a few important connections on his mother’s side—his father never learned to use them. Panagiotes was a quick study. He soon found a niche in the Greek foreign service, met all the right personages. Seven years passed before his big opportunity came with the outbreak of civil war in Lebanon.
"By then he had the credit and contacts to furnish tons of weapons and material behind the scenes. He purchased the stuff all over Europe, on both sides of the Curtain, utilizing sealed warehouses the government allows for inspection-free transshipment at Piraeus. Those warehouses have become an international scandal in themselves, incidentally. Panagiotes became a millionaire almost overnight. He used that money to buy even higher influence and wider protection in half a dozen Mediterranean countries. At the same time, he invested in legitimate enterprises. Shipping, even a shipyard in Tripoli; an oil refinery in Thrace. But there is every indication that he continues to prefer the fast-buck operations, the return is so immense.”
They had come through the massive wall of the Old Town and up narrow, tourist-clogged streets. Now the driver parked the car in the small square a few steps from the entrance to the St. John Hotel.
"Looks as if the KGB is waiting,” Durell told McFee.
The General agreed with a jog of his small, gray head as they strolled across the dolphin-mosaic floor, toward the lobby elevator. "I saw the desk clerk give a nod to their man,” he whispered. "Not very surprising; they are an efficient organization.”
Durell found the elevator button above an enormous vase of blossoms that looked fresh from the harbor-front stalls of the Néa Agorá. Waiting, his eyes swept the lobby, with its Afándou carpets and medieval-style wall lanterns. He impressed on his mind the image of the men who had received the clerk’s subtle signal. An onlooker would have noted no target in the momentary flash of his dark blue eyes.
Durell would have expected the man to be dressed as a businessman or tourist, the better to blend with the scene. He looked more like a sailor in denims. He was big and muscular and heavy-jawed. He had a taut, knowing mouth, but round, oddly innocent blue eyes and kinky blond hair. He was not one Durell had seen in Egypt.
Durell’s emotions were divided: he was disturbed to find them waiting; why should they be if Skoll were as satisfied as he had seemed? They should have it all wrapped up by now. On the other hand, their continued activity here must mean that Lazeishvili still eluded their grasp. For that, he was relieved.
He had fanned the room on his first stay, but he did it again, quickly and thoroughly. McFee waited like a statue. No sign of impatience. Nothing had been disturbed, but two pea-sized, voice-actuated transmitters had been added, one in the telephone, the other in a light fixture. Durell exhibited them on his palm; McFee stared at them coldly. Then Durell flushed them down the toilet.
"What now, sir?” Durell asked.
"Sorry, Samuel. I should have explained. Change into something presentable; we have an appointment with Widich Santesson—the executive director of the Human Rights Congress?”
Durell nodded, pulling his suitcase out and opening it. "Have you spoken with him at all?” he asked.
"No. I flew in from Athens only moments before you landed. He’s here on his yacht. I should imagine that he brought O’Dell and Lazeishvili along with him.”
Durell began changing. "My
job isn’t done until I get Lazeishvili off the island and out of harm’s way,” he said.
"Proper security arrangements have been made,” McFee replied. "The police will convey us to the airport. He will board a charter flight to Stockholm— fortunately, one is to leave in an hour and a half. In Sweden he will connect with a flight for New York, where he will be met by our people. You will accompany him all the way.”
"What if he chooses not to go to the United States?”
"We must convince him that he must, as a matter of national security.”
"I have the impression he doesn’t necessarily think our interests coincide. What if we can’t?”
McFee’s tone was unbending. "We can. One way or the other.” He relented a little. "After you deliver him, take a few days off.”
"What about Mobundu, sir? I was propping for a mission there when the Mermaid Memo cropped up.”
"That situation will hold; it has stabilized, somewhat.”
Durell gave a final tug to his dark green tie, adjusted the underarm holster for a new .38 S&W he had acquired in Port Said, slipped into the jacket of his brown suit—and hesitated.
"Something is troubling you?” McFee’s pale eyes missed little.
Durell still hesitated, then said: "The reference to Africa. The Nereid was headed south, through the canal. Doubtlessly, before the Russians copped her. Headed for Africa with empty holds.”
"As a diversion, do you suppose? To what purpose?” There was a note of impatience in McFee’s question. He glanced at his watch, clearly little interested in the Nereid, now that he almost had the Russian scientist.
"I don’t know why the ship was empty, sir; but I have reason to believe it started from Russia with a cargo of yellowcake.”
"Uranium oxide?” McFee suddenly became interested. "That can be refined for weapons-grade uranium.”
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