Skoll’s Tartar face was mocking. "Let me see, now. You, with your poor, confused mind, are saying that we intended the Nereid to take the yellowcake and Lazeishvili to Uzuri?”
"Yes, except it was Andropov, not Lazeishvili—but, of course, Andropov was to impersonate Lazeishvili.”
"Um. Very confusing, Comrade Cajun.”
"I think you follow it.”
"Then what?”
"Uzuri is landlocked; it has no coastline, no harbors. The yellowcake would necessarily have been transshipped from a South African port, as that is the only border nation with which Uzuri still has friendly ties. That’s when the Soviet Union would have blown the whistle. As Uzuri had purchased the uranium under the false cover of its being for Italian industry, the Soviet Union could scream correctly that it had been in fact stolen.”
"But what about Andro—Lazeishvili?”
"That was the icing on the cake. You’d claim that he, as a nuclear physicist, had gone along without your knowledge or consent to help the mad-dog Uzurians turn the uranium into atomic weapons.”
Skoll clucked his tongue. "Such incredible fantasies, old friend. Surely, I have never seen you like this before.” He touched his head, and added in a low voice: "Psychiatric treatment. That is what you need.”
"There is no other explanation for the things that have happened,” Durell said simply.
Skoll laughed. He slapped the table and slowly drew his hand back across it, as if pulling in winnings, eyes fastened on Durell. "But why? Why would we do this crazy thing?” he chortled.
Durell shrugged. "The dissident movement. It’s a sore that festers on the tyranny of your leaders, Skoll. More than ever, since the signing of the Helsinki Accords on Human Rights.”
"A gabble of traitors,” Skoll snorted.
"Your people saw a chance to discredit them, crush their spirit,” Durell went on. "If you could show that one of their leaders was an opportunistic madman, you could claim that he was typical of the rest. You would have used every propaganda weapon to spread the story and pound it home. Andropov would have remained in the West, posing as Lazeishvili, living up to the reputation you gave him and dispensing lies and misinformation, perhaps for decades. With luck, he might even have insinuated himself into the fringes of dissidents who had fled before—the core at home wouldn’t have had him—feeding information back to you on everything they did. He could have caused unlimited trouble—as you well know.”
Skoll poured more vodka, swallowed, belched. "It makes an interesting story,” he said. "Too bad it does not hold up.”
"Oh?”
"The uranium ore. We wouldn’t allow Uzuri to have that for use against the freedom fighters we’ve always supported. No, never!” He shook his head vigorously.
"You wouldn’t have allowed it,” Durell said, his voice flat. "You would have pressured South Africa to impound or destroy it, rather than send it on to Uzuri.” "And what if South Africa had refused? We are not insane enough to take the slightest chance that Uzuri would get so much uranium.”
"You didn’t take a chance,” Durell said.
"What?” Skoll pretended astonishment.
"There was no uranium, or very little. Not a usable quantity. The barrels were filled with sand. There’s only enough yellowcake on top to fool South African port authorities. Our divers will descend to the Nereid tomorrow to confirm that.”
"But how did you know that?” Skoll blurted.
"I found a barrel offshore, near Panagiotes’ villa. It was filled mostly with sand. At first I assumed it was off the sea bottom, but later I realized the bottom there was coral and stone—there was no sand, Cesar.” Skoll just stared at him.
Durell finished, just as Marty Stone and Hal Arbeit came in with Captain Andropov between them: "If it hadn’t been for Panagiotes double-crossing Uzuri and hijacking the uranium ore, your plan would have worked. All you ever wanted was to get the Nereid, the yellowcake and Andropov back together and on their way to Uzuri once more.”
The three men stood just inside the door, waiting. Marty’s arm was in a sling; Andropov’s swollen knuckles were wrapped in bandages. The Russian looked haggard and uncertain as he waited in his dripping tweed jacket.
The cook stared from behind his aluminum pots at the rear of the narrow room.
Colonel Skoll rose slowly from the table, his slanted eyes burning. "So!” he called. "We have you, Aleksei Lazeishvili, you traitorous bastard.”
Andropov’s misty-green eyes blinked in bewilderment, but he caught on quickly enough. "Da, Comrade,” he said.
Skoll spoke like a prosecutor; the outrage he put into his voice seemed barely controlled. "You affirm that you are Aleksei Lazeishvili?”
"Da, Comrade Colonel.”
The thunder of a gun filled the room. The impact of a bullet knocked a gushing breath from Andropov’s lungs. It was the only sound he made as he fell dead, shot through the heart. The report wrenched Durell’s head toward the rear of the caf§, his hand traveling to his pistol. Marty and Hal had been staggered with shock, briefly, but now reached for their weapons.
"Anyone moves another inch, they die!” screamed the cook.
Now Durell saw him, his pistol braced in the kitchen’s serving window.
Skoll stood and stared thoughtfully at Andropov’s face. The Americans watched apprehensively, their moves suspended. Skoll seemed exempt from the cook’s order as he shambled away from the body, and Durell got the connection, and said: "Why, Skoll?”
"Now there is no more Aleksei Lazeishvili; why should the state have paid to carry him back for execution?”
"And there is no more Captain Oleg Andropov,” Durell said.
"There never was.”
The two Russians left by the rear exit, the one in the cook’s uniform covering for Skoll, then backing out after him.
Marty and Arbeit looked quizzically at Durell.
"He never admitted a thing,” Durell said.
"Nothing?” Marty asked.
"He had his orders,” Durell said.
Durell had one last debt to settle, but a different sort of debt. And only an hour and a half left to do it in.
He stood in the courtyard of an old Italian villa and rapped on a heavy, carved door.
The rain had stopped, but the sound of running water was everywhere, chiming and chuckling. Hibiscus and bougainvillea drooped blossoms heavy with rain. The air was cool, the sky the color of tarnished silver.
Sirena opened the door and stared at him. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Inside was dusky, as if all the curtains were closed. "What do you want?” she said.
"I’m not sure.”
Her eyes flashed. "Why? Because you don’t know what I charge?”
"I apologize for that.”
"Go away!” There was a wailing anguish to her words. She tried to close the door, but Durell held it. "You called me a prostitute!” she shouted, anger rising in her voice.
"I said I was sorry.”
She stood in the opening and looked up at him from under the dark fans of her lashes. She was shoeless, dressed in a low-cut, backless sundress, the full length of her shining black hair rippling down over her shoulders.
"You’ve been crying,” Durell said, and asked: "For Lazeishvili?”
"No. I just feel—numb about that.”
"Panagiotes?”
"He was horrible! I see that now. No. No one will mourn him.”
Durell lifted her chin with his finger. "What then?”
"I didn’t think you would want to see me again, ever!” She threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Sam, can you possibly forgive me?”
"I came to collect a promise,” he said, holding her. She looked up, her face close to his. "What?”
His eyes swept the tinkling fragrance of the courtyard. "This seems a quiet and lovely place,” he said, recalling words she had spoken in Lindos.
She clung to him, and her face brightened. "I did make you a promise, darling Sam—but is no one chasing us?
There is no threat of death hanging over our heads?”
"I have only an hour and a half; I must catch a plane then, or go to jail.”
"Ah, that is danger enough,” she said, her voice husky, "for I assure you, Sam Durell, you will miss your plane!” She pulled him inside, and he kicked the door shut.
It seemed worth the risk.
Assignment- Mermaid Page 19