Assignment- Mermaid

by Will B Aarons

  "I killed . . . ? I told you—” Link burst out.

  "I don’t believe anything you say,” Durell said. "But go ahead.”

  "I—I simply didn’t have the money to pay Hank . . .”

  "Go on,” Durell said.

  "I would have paid him later, when—”

  "I said go on with your story.”

  Link turned south on Highway One and headed down the island’s east coast. The brilliance of the moon delineated the mountain spine to their right.

  "I didn’t encounter Hank, because I always called the hotel. I’ve known the management for years,” Link said. "They told me about him asking for you, incidentally. And when I called this evening, they said you had returned, but were not in your room. What’s more, Ross had disappeared. It seemed worth the trouble to check at the windmill and see if he had taken you there.”

  "You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Durell said.

  "It’s simple, really.” Link’s split lips ventured a sardonic grin. "This is an absurd situation. I’d feel much better if you put that gun away.”

  Durell made no reply; he left the gun where it was.

  Link glanced at him and turned quickly away from Durell’s hard eyes. "I suppose I can hardly blame you for not trusting me, considering that I left you behind at the canal. What if Fd waited for you, and the Russians had caught up with all of us? Besides, I didn’t doubt for a minute that you could survive on your own, a fellow with your experience and expertise.”

  They were passing the darkened entrance to Rodíni Park, where the summer-long wine festival was held each year. The moonshine hinted at a landscaped setting of streams and flowers and trees.

  "Why didn’t you turn Lazeishvili' over to Widich Santesson?” Durell asked.

  A disdainful snort came through Link’s beakish nose. "Santesson is an ass. Knowing the Russians were hard after Lazeishvili, I judged Santesson’s chances of safely removing him from the island no better than one in fifty. I learned just how raw and deadly this business is, with you.”

  Durell made no comment, shifted his gun a bit, let a few moments slide past. Even in the obscure light of the dash he could see Link’s lips twitch nervously. He was lying.

  Link spoke with compulsion: "The best I could do was keep Lazeishvili hidden until you returned, don’t you see? I’ll gladly place him in your hands now.”

  "Sure you will,” Durell said with deadly calm.

  "I know you’ll find a way to get him safely off the island, if that’s possible,” Link said. He took a handkerchief from his rear pocket and dabbed blood from the pencil line of his mustache, glanced at it distastefully.

  Durell gave a thought to Sirena, remembered Hank saying she had tried to help Lazeishvili escape. It wasn’t surprising when he recalled the admiration she held for him. She must have sided with Link at first; maybe she never knew the truth; the distinction between Lazeishvili’s rescue and his abduction blurred by Link’s lies, then further distorted by Lazeishvili’s announced desire to return to the Soviets. There was no point in asking Link what her involvement was: he would incriminate anybody to take the heat off himself. Only one thing was clear beyond dispute, and it was disquieting only if she had been led to believe that Link was holding the dissident for his own protection.

  She had sided with Lazeishvili.

  Which was the same as siding with the Russians.

  He broke the silence. "If you didn’t kidnap Lazeishvili, who sent Widich Santesson a ransom note?”

  "A ransom note?” Link looked surprised. "How in god’s name should I know?” He swallowed. "It’s a hoax!”

  "I thought you’d say that.” Durell’s tone was implacable.

  "You must believe me,” Link pleaded. "Hank Ross must have said something to someone, enough so they could pretend to have Lazeishvili—”

  "Try again,” Durell said.

  Link remained silent, as he turned off the highway, down a narrow lane. Durell noted the neat rows of trees; they were passing through an orchard, perhaps an olive grove. The Fiat rumbled and lurched over the rough surface of the rutted road. A bat out of some grotto in the mountains fluttered through the high beams. The upper chest of Link’s jumpsuit was streaked dark with perspiration. He spoke in a voice that was suddenly solemn.

  "Are you going to kill me?” he asked.

  "If I don’t take care of you, who will?” Durell saw no point in easing the pressure. He spoke conversationally. "I can hardly turn you over to the Greek courts. The whole story would come out: names, dates, places. We can’t afford that in our business.”

  "You can’t murder me in cold blood!”

  "I wouldn’t like it—but I could do it.” With a start, he recognized the ruin of Panagiotes’ villa at the end of the headlamp beams.

  "There will be witnesses,” Link said. "Lazeishvili and Sirena.”

  "She’s here?”

  Link nodded. "Helping me take care of Lazeishvili—if I’m guilty of anything, so is she.”

  "Just shut up.”

  "If you kill me, you’ll have to—”

  "Shut up, I said.”

  "If Lazeishvili vouches for me . . . ?” Link implored, as he parked and cut the engine.

  "Get out. Take me to him,” Durell said. He stood outside the car, looked back down the lane; then his eyes swept the shadowed, whispering surroundings.

  The little engine popped as it cooled in the darkness on the breezy headland.

  A thin gauze of high cloud spread the moonlight like frosted glass, only the brightest stars showing through. Weather change in the offing, Durell thought absently.

  "Here.” He gave his penflash to Link and followed the man, two paces behind, his gun down at his side. A gust swirled in the big pomegranate tree; the thud of ripe fruit striking the earth came out of the dusky shadows. Below the house, beyond terraced gardens and swimming pool that mirrored the milky sky, the Aegean beat and growled against the cliffs.

  Inside, the villa still reeked of burned timber and charred leather. The head of the Egyptian sarcophagus, the priceless gold Buddha, the wall-size collection of ancient Rhodian plates—all were gone. Walls were barren, pedestals empty. All of Panagiotes’ treasures had been gleaned from the house. Link moved unhesitatingly past the mirrored wall with its fireplace and into a paneled alcove. Durell wondered where Lazeishvili was, but didn’t ask. Link shone the penflash at what appeared to be an ordinary light switch, but proved a dummy as he slipped it aside, pressing a black button beneath it.

  "Lazeishvili will vouch for me, you’ll see,” Link said.

  Durell waited, the grip of his gun an oily weight in his hand. A low, almost inaudible hum came from behind the paneling, then a sliding hiss as the wall parted. There was an elevator big enough to hold a king-size bed.

  "Now I see how Panagiotes got away when they firebombed his place,” Durell said. He signaled with a wave of the .38. "You first,” he said.

  "It’s quite clever, don’t you agree? Doesn’t depend on public utility current at all. A battery-operated circuit monitors the call button. It actuates a gasoline generator that powers the actual operation of the elevator.”

  "How did you know about it?” Durell asked, as they stepped inside.

  Link thumbed the "down” button. "Panagiotes made no secret of it to me. He loves gadgets, you know.”

  "Does he?”

  Link turned chatty, as if that would replace his fear with a sense of normalcy. His eyes kept sliding back to the gun. "We didn’t move in exactly the same circles, Panagiotes and I, but we did move in circles that overlapped, somewhat,” he said. "Our acquaintance goes back some years. He’s a marvelous host on a cruise; I remember one year—”

  "What’s down here?” Durell said as the elevator halted its descent. The doors opened, and he saw a high, wide corridor surfaced in concrete. It was well lighted by sunken ceiling fixtures and had warehouse-type doors of corrugated metal at the far end.

  "This leads to a pier where Pan
agiotes moors his yacht, when in residence,” Link said. "He built his house on the site of an old fortress. This was once an escape tunnel; he straightened and enlarged it, of course. The hill was honeycombed with tunnels, all sealed off now.”

  They passed a pair of yellow-painted forklifts and several flat-bedded freight cars with small rubber-tired wheels. The facility obviously was equipped to handle cargo of considerable weight and volume.

  Link spoke as they approached a large steel door. "I had never been off the main corridor until I brought Lazeishvili here. A man in your profession will appreciate what I found.”

  "Why my profession?”

  "International intrigue, that sort of thing.”

  "Yes?”

  "Weapons. Tons of them. Panagiotes is an arms dealer. Under the table. Black market.” Link stopped before the door. "You don’t seem surprised,” he said, lifting a brow.

  "I knew. Is Lazeishvili in there?”

  "Always a jump ahead, aren’t you?”

  "Open the door,” Durell said.

  Link’s tone was jaunty. "Certainly, old fellow. Voilá!” He touched a red button on a junction box, and the door clattered up, out of sight. He flipped on the lights. No one was there.

  Durell’s tone was urgent and threatening. "Where is he, Link? Where is Aleksei Lazeishvili?”

  Link’s face turned the color of bleached bone. "I left him here, I swear it. The room was filled with packing crates. Rifles, grenades, bazookas . . .”

  Durell tried to penetrate the astonishment that froze Link’s gaze. He could not say whether the man lied or told the truth. His own certainty about Link’s guilt began to falter. Ail the talk about Lazeishvili vindicating Link; the assurance with which Link had spoken when he said Sirena would be here. . . And yet there was the ransom note. It only made sense that Link had sent it.

  Quickly, he surveyed the room. It was large enough for considerable storage. A neatly spaced series of red-painted sprinklers in the ceiling bespoke concern for incendiary, perhaps explosive contents.

  "You have a pocketknife?” he asked.

  Link fished a short, bone-handled knife from his pocket.

  A few crates remained, stacked in a corner. They had been bound with heavy cord, as if the lids had been pried loose, then closed up again. Durell chose a crate and cut the cords. Inside were hand grenades. Link had not lied there: this must be Panagiotes’ storage depot.

  "When were you last here?” he asked.

  "Early this morning—that was yesterday, now. It’s been cleaned out. So has the house.”

  "So I noticed.” Durell stared glumly at the empty room.

  Link’s voice was tight with worry. "Panagiotes has been back,” he said. "He came and took everything— including Sirena and Aleksei Lazeishvili!”

  17

  "What are you going to do how?” Link stared down the barrel of Durell’s gun and swallowed.

  "Where would Panagiotes go?”

  "There’s only one place, if he’s still in Greece. His headquarters, an office building in Piraeus. He keeps a suite there.”

  "Come on. I’ll charter a plane.” Durell headed for the door. If Link were lying, there was only one way to find out.

  "Go by yourself; anybody can find it.” Link’s face was stubborn, his brows drawn down.

  Durell took a second before replying. His eyes darkened with anger. "If you’re pals with Panagiotes, you may be helpful getting inside. Besides, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  "He’ll kill me; kill us both. You’ve seen his temper. I’m not about to cross swords with Costa Panagiotes.”

  Durell’s upper lip curled back. "Turn around. Get on your knees,” he barked.

  "What—?”

  Durell tipped his gun. "On your knees.”

  Link turned and knelt, looking fearfully at Durell over his shoulder. "I don’t understand . . .”

  Durell’s voice was as cold as a burial vault. "Turn around, unless you want it in the face.”

  "Oh, Jesus; Sam, no . . . !”

  "One time. That’s all I’ll say it,” Durell rasped. "You want to die now, or take your chances with Panagiotes later?”

  "I’ll take you to him,” Link said.

  They deplaned at Ellinikon’s Western Air Terminal and rented a Volkswagen. The Saronic Gulf, glowing in the moonlight, could be seen from the terminal building. They drove northwest on Vassileos Georgiou Boulevard, which bordered the sea. This was the "Apollo Coast,” an immense sprawl of suburban housing, beach resorts, night clubs and marinas that served Athens. It stretched almost twenty-five kilometers, from Piraeus, the world’s principal port in classical times, to Labrion, where silver mines had funded the Athenian fleet that destroyed the Persians and their Rhodian allies at the Battle of Salamis.

  Durell had the Nereid on his mind. He had stopped in Rhodes Town long enough to contact Marty, who had arrived from Athens with the team dispatched by General McFee. The team—Hal Arbeit and Curt Veerman— was already tailing a couple of KGB men uncovered in the guise of tourists at the Casino.

  But Marty had brought alarming news: the Nereid had turned up at Piraeus and loaded a cargo of barrels from a warehouse reserved for international transshipment.

  The Nereid had to be still in the hands of the Russians; their language had been overheard in the warehouse.

  The cargo must have been the uranium ore.

  Durell would have expected the Russians to transport the yellowcake back to the Soviet Union, the sooner the better. But that did not appear to be happening.

  McFee had ordered that an R-12 radio beacon be planted in the cargo as the ship was being loaded, and that had been accomplished at great hazard. The beacon was not moving north, toward the Dardanelles and the Black Sea.

  It was headed south, toward Africa, once again.

  "Don’t fret,” Marty had said. "The Sixth Fleet’s ASW arm will be able to track the Nereid anywhere she goes.”

  Maybe, if the beacon escaped detection. But that was only part of the problem. If the Russians were not taking the Nereid home with them, it had to be stopped, the uranium destroyed, before it could do its mischief in the hands of a Soviet puppet state.

  They were in Piraeus now. They turned onto Georgiou A. Avenue, one of the city’s main thoroughfares, and crossed Karaiskon Square with its flower-hung lampposts and fountain. It fronted the island cruise boat piers, normally an area of hectic activity but quiet now. Most of the major shipping lines had their offices in this vicinity. Panagiotes’ building was a white, eight-story structure, just one of many. There was no sign, nothing to indicate its purpose. Beyond a glass door with a polished brass push-bar stood two uniformed security guards.

  Durell swore under his breath. "You’ll have to bluff us past them,” he told Link.

  "That will be easy. But I beg you: think how Panagiotes will receive you, if he does have Lazeishvili prisoner here.”

  "I can’t afford to worry about that.”

  "It won’t be with open arms, I assure you, old fellow.”

  Durell took a moment to look up and down the building. Lights shone from the top floor. A locomotive horn buzzed from the Peloponnese Railway Station a few blocks north.

  "Let’s go,” he said.

  He held his pistol in a jacket pocket as they approached the entrance. Link tapped on the glass door; a guard peered, grinned, twisted the lock.

  "Kalinýkta. Good evening, Mr. O’Dell,” he said.

  Link replied in Greek: "I wish to go up.”

  "Certainly, sir.” The guard gave Link’s split lip a quizzical stare. "Were you in an accident?”

  "A minor one. This is Mr. Durell.”

  The guard nodded and pressed the elevator button. He was a middle-aged man, eager to please. The other guard was younger, of a different cut. He lounged lazily against the wall and watched with insolent eyes.

  Durell checked the street through the glass. It was empty. He was aware of the trickle of sweat from under his armpits.r />
  The elevator opened onto a plushly carpeted corridor. The muffled music of a piano mingled with voices and low laughter.

  "Welcome to Costa Panagiotes’ penthouse,” Link said. "Sounds like a party.”

  Durell waved his gun toward the end of the subtly illuminated hallway. "What’s down there?”

  "Service entrance.”

  "It’ll do. Move it.”

  They went through the swinging doors, followed a corridor past the kitchen to a dining room that held a parchment-covered steel table beneath a futuristic chandelier of chrome. The piano music and conversation came from the next room.

  Durell silently and cautiously cracked a door. There were a dozen or so formally dressed guests. They lounged in deep chairs, some of the women with shoeless feet tucked under them, drinks in their hands. Several listened to a man recount a ribald story; others chatted quietly. Durell’s eyes found the short, broad-shouldered Panagiotes near a tall, wooden bird-sculpture from New Guinea, where he talked quietly with a prominent politician of royalist sympathies. He still masked his eyes behind dark glasses, as if only he must know what they showed. And there was Sirena, moving away from the piano. Perhaps she had sung for them; she certainly was not here by force, she looked perfectly at home—and stunningly beautiful in a floaty chiffon dress of a blush color, her glossy black hair drawn back into a bun, a red flower beside her ear. The party did not seem to interest her as she stood by the entrance foyer, momentarily alone.

  Durell flagged Link into a passage that led from the rear of the dining room. They came to a study lined with leather-bound books and mohair wall covering, then the entrance alcove, where mirrored closet doors reflected a large green plant.

  Sirena was within arm’s reach.

  For a long moment, Durell concentrated on the room, regarded everyone and where they looked. It was the best chance he would have.

  His arm shot out from the shadows, clapped a hand over her mouth, jerked her back to him. He dragged her back toward the study. She struggled like a cat at first, then recognition flickered from the corners of her dark eyes. He kept her moving until they were in the study, then gently snapped the door shut.