Assignment- Death Ship

by Will B Aarons

  Chapter 3

  “The joint chiefs think the Russians know,” Maj. Miller said.

  “Recon satellites?” Durell asked. It was night on Interstate 270. Maj. Miller had picked him up in a black motor-pool Chevrolet; they were headed into Washington.

  “NASA says they were in an orbit allowing surveillance of the Sun Rover at the right time. There’s been a spurt in radio transmission from Cuba to the Soviet Union.”

  Durell watched the frigid countryside slide through the darkness. Windows made stilettos of light on the frozen ground. “Did they get wind of the note? The mention of a biological weapon?” he wondered.

  “Our orders are to assume security’s been broken.” The major glanced into the rearview mirror. “The Soviets may believe we would add X. coli to our arsenal. If they do, they’ll try to get it first. It’s that simple.”

  The Russians. That was all he needed, Durell thought. “The Biological Weapons Convention doesn’t mean a damned thing to them, does it?” he said.

  “Not if we judge by Afghanistan and Cambodia.”

  The next minutes passed in silence as Maj. Miller followed Connecticut Avenue into the city. “We have a couple of hours until flight time. General McFee wants us to make a call on Bernhard Caske before we leave,” he said.

  “Of the Caske pharmaceutical company? I thought he’d be in Europe.”

  “Normally, he is. He happens to be in town on business.” Maj. Miller took several sheets of flimsy from his inside jacket pocket—he was dressed in civvies: a houndstooth jacket and dark slacks—and handed them to Durell. “There’s the dope on Caske and his relationship with Plettner, the Einstein of microbiology, as they call him. Don’t strain your eye. In a word, it’s messy as hell.”

  Durell glanced through the data by the light of his pen flashlight. He saw that Plettner had a long career in academic research, first at Stanford, then at Princeton, before moving into industrial research on an enormous retainer for Caske, S.A. He was forty-two years old; his wife of eight years, twenty-nine-year-old Muncie, held advanced degrees in biochemistry and was his principal laboratory assistant. He lived and worked on an unnamed island off the south coast of Puerto Rico.

  Under comments, it was noted that Plettner’s career was littered with professional casualties—from the days he’d schemed to head his university’s biology department to his unblushing politicking for the Nobel prize. He had a reputation for greed, womanizing, and a raging temper fed by a demanding ego.

  Caske used him to hype its stock on the premise that genetic engineering was the growth industry of the future, and Plettner was the best mind in the business. The trouble began, according to the information before Durell, when Dr. Plettner failed to produce any breakthroughs, at least nothing commercially exploitable like synthetic insulin. Now Caske was deeply in debt, its overvalued stock teetering, and facing financial peril.

  “There must have been lots of pressure on Plettner to produce,” Durell said. “Maybe he couldn’t take it.”

  “And ran away?” Maj. Miller asked. They were on Vermont, not far from Thomas Circle.

  “He could hide a long time on a billion dollars,” Durell replied. He was thoughtful for a moment. “If only we were sure he was behind it.”

  “How about that Duka bitch?”

  “The Duka lady swears it wasn’t Plettner. She was shown his photo. I believe her,” Durell said flatly.

  “Why? She killed Nelson.”

  “Nelson’s death was an accident.”

  Maj. Miller’s leer was yellow in the light of the dash. “Just because you were naked in the shower with her, don’t let it impair your judgment—”

  “Shut up,” Durell snapped.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you mad.” He halted the car beside the curb. “Here we are: Caske’s Washington office. He’s expecting us.”

  As they approached the fanlighted doorway of the trim brick townhouse, Maj. Miller said, “You know, if Bernhard Caske loses Dr. Plettner’s services, it’ll be the end of his company. Plettner’s the only hope he has.”

  Inside was more like a residence than an office, with comfortable rooms expensively furnished. An aide led them into a library where Bernhard Caske waited. He was tall, with just enough bulk around the middle to look substantial; he wore a full beard trimmed short. He had intelligent eyes, an air of command. His face was flushed; he did not look well.

  “Gentlemen.” He held out his hand. They introduced themselves. Durell felt a formal aloofness. “Perhaps we should get right to the point?” Caske said.

  Durell took the lead. “We understand that your associate, Dr. Plettner, is missing. We’re searching for him. Maybe you can help us.”

  “What does the government of the United States want with him?” Caske asked.

  “It’s a government matter,” Durell said.

  “Income taxes?”

  “Hardly, sir.”

  “Then what?” Caske’s face hardened,

  Durell and Maj. Miller exchanged questioning glances. “It’s a matter of the vital national interest. I can’t tell you more,” Durell insisted. There was a silence.

  Caske rose from his chair, clipped the end of a long, black Havana and lighted it with a gold lighter. He looked down at Durell, who remained seated. Caske had a bald head that shone like ivory in the soft light. “National interest means Switzerland’s interest to me, not that of the United States,” he said.

  “You want him back as badly as we do,” Durell said.

  “He won’t do me any good in jail,” Caske said.

  “He may not go to jail. We simply don’t know. We have to find him—lives are involved,” Durell said.

  “It’s not my affair,” Caske replied sternly. “Besides, if I knew where he was, don’t you think I’d already have gone there?”

  “We need his recent work,” Durell persisted. “Has he sent anything to the company? Notes? Lab reports? Anything?”

  “Hah!” Caske’s laugh was disconcerting. “That’s what the world would like to know, isn’t it? What discoveries has the great Dr. Plettner brought forth? They would like to steal them, if they could. Thieves! Pirates!” He poked the smoldering cigar at Durell. “Well, you can tell them this, Mr. Durell: No one—no one!—will see Dr. Plettner’s triumphs until they are safely patented and put before the public under a Caske label!”

  “The material would be held in strictest confidence,” Durell said.

  “With your government? It might as well be printed in the newspapers—it would be in no time!” He lowered his voice. “Just tell them the magnificent Dr. Plettner will return soon. Caske, S.A. will remain preeminent in its field.”

  It was Durell’s turn to stand up. Caske seemed to be trying to turn the affair to some sort of commercial advantage, and Durell was having trouble keeping his Cajun temper under control. Yet, he was not free to tell Caske the extent of the horror hanging over them. He didn’t trust the man. He gave him a phone number. “If you change your mind, I can be reached through that number,” he told him.

  Caske looked stubborn. “You won’t tell me your secrets, but you want me to tell you mine.”

  “Forget it,” Durell said, turning to Maj. Miller. “There isn’t any more time. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 4

  On the final approach to Isla Verde International Airport, San Juan Bay and the San Jose lagoon were voids in a fiery twinkle that was the sprawl of San Juan. A woven pattern of illumination began as a narrow arm at the fortress of El Morro in the Atlantic, spread between bay and lagoon at Santurce, then widened enormously to the east and. west. Lights of merchantmen glowed from moorings in San Antonio Channel, as did those of four cruise liners at tourist piers.

  Minutes later Durell and Maj. Miller walked amid purring fountains and palm trees in the open-air concourse of the terminal.

  Hours ago San Juan police had been notified to hunt for Luis Alegra. They’d been supplied with Miss Duka’s description of him,
the places they’d gone the night before—-everything she’d remembered—although it was unlikely he’d stayed in town, or that Luis Alegra was his real name. At least the description had been helpful: a tall, thin man with green eyes and a scar through his left eyebrow.

  There was nothing more to be done in San Juan.

  The immediate task was to get Maj. Miller into Dr. Plettner’s laboratory, overtly or covertly. Legally or illegally. Maybe he’d find the X. coli vaccine there, or at least clues to it, while Durell tried to pick up Plettner’s spoor.

  They rented a green Datsun and drove south on the Las Americas Expressway toward Ponce, Durell at the wheel. As they crossed the Ruta Panoramica on the island’s central mountain spine, a rising breeze broke up the predawn rain clouds, and Durell saw the waters of the Caribbean far in front and the Atlantic to the rear. Then the colors of sunrise swam over the east, and the sun flared brilliantly on the horizon.

  Maj. Miller snored beside him as they descended the southern slope of the forested, fog-patched mountain toward Salinas.

  On arriving at the shore, he turned off, following a back road to a small fishing village of weathered, tin-roofed houses clustered near a white church. There was a small harbor with a few brightly painted fishing boats. The wind roared among coconut palms that grew down to the high-tide line.

  They parked next to the church and walked through beach sand to the piers. The sound of breakers came from down the shore. Gulls shrieked. A few children played.

  They found an old man working on the engine of a fishing boat; Durell asked him how much he wanted to ferry them to Plettner’s island retreat.

  "Mucho dinero,” the old man said, shaking his head. “People have been shot at out there.” He picked up a wrench and studied the engine.

  Durell looked at Maj. Miller, who rolled his eyes nervously. “You don’t mind getting shot at, do you?” he asked.

  “Do I have a choice?” the major asked.

  “No.” Durell turned back to the fisherman. “We’ll pay you for the risk you’re taking,” he said. “You decide how much.”

  The old fisherman looked pleased, then thoughtful. Then he said, “It will be costly.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  “That’s a lot,” Durell said.

  “I won’t take a cent less.”

  Durell nodded. “It’s a deal,” he said. “What about the shooting you spoke of?”

  The weatherbeaten little man shrugged. “They don’t like us. They don’t like strangers, either. It’s a shame.” He sighed. “We used to make a little money taking people out there to see the famous man. Now you take your life in your own hands.”

  "Has anyone been killed?”

  The old man shrugged. “I heard they killed a man from Obispo. It’s another village up the coast.” He put his wrench away. “They say another was killed also. I don’t know where he was from.”

  “But no one you know; you’ve seen no one killed?”

  The old man stood up, straightening his body with slow effort. “The bullets are real, señor.”

  Durell turned his gaze across the shimmering water. Several small islands hung on the horizon as grayish tufts that seemed to float above the bright sea. He noted with discomfort that the day had already grown hot, although shadows of the palms still were long across the sand. “Well, let’s go,” he said.

  The fisherman held out a gnarled hand; Durell placed a twenty dollar bill in it. The man folded it with care and placed it in the pocket of his stained shirt, and they cast off.

  The island was some five miles from shore. It took quite a while to reach it, and the sun climbed higher and the heat lay thick on the water. They had had no breakfast, but Durell was not hungry. He ate when he could; he stayed awake for days, if necessary, driving himself mercilessly.

  As they drew closer, he judged the island to be about half a mile long by a mile wide. It rose gently to a round hilltop about a hundred feet high, where he caught glimpses of the ruins of an old white-painted plantation house.

  The shoreline alternated between mangrove swamps and

  rocky juttings of pitted stone. Here and there yellow beaches swept up to palms and jungle. They were approaching from the lee side, so there was no surf, just a low curl of foam that hissed at the sand.

  Durell’s eyes quickened with interest as he picked out a single strand of footprints along the beach.

  They were close in when the first shot spat from the trees.

  “What did I tell you?” the fisherman cried.

  Another shot ripped splinters from the deckhouse.

  The old man yanked the tiller around.

  “What are you doing?” Durell demanded.

  “You can have your money,” the fisherman cried. He was kneeling beside the tiller. He thrust the twenty dollars at Durell.

  “You made a bargain,” Durell told him, ignoring the money.

  “I’m breaking it.”

  “No you’re not.” Durell pushed him aside. He saw Maj. Miller flat on his stomach forward of the deckhouse. “I’ll take it in,” Durell told the old man. “You just stay down.”

  “You’d better be ready to die.”

  “I don’t intend to die yet. Where can we land?”

  The fisherman looked up from the deck. “There’s a cove past that headland.”

  Durell brought the boat back around, its engine chuffing. He felt sweat trickle down his temple. Maj. Miller pointed toward the shore. “Someone’s in the trees. Over there,” he called.

  Durell kept low, squinting into the glare for a glimpse of the gunman. He saw no one. The sun was high and dazzling, its rays raking his face like hot talons. There had been two shots and nothing more, and he didn’t know whether to welcome the silence or fear it. He felt unseen eyes drawing a bead on him. He tried to keep down as he brought the boat chugging around the point indicated by the fisherman. It coasted across clear water in a green cove, the shadow of its hull dragging on the coral and sand beneath them.

  He jerked his head down as another shot sent a slug thudding into planking.

  “Look!” Maj. Miller called. “In the scrub by that pile of rocks.”

  Durell nodded. He caught movement in there. “Don’t expose yourself any more than you have to,” he called. “Let’s get off this boat. I think I saw reflection on a scope; I don’t see how they can miss many more times.” He had them coasting up to a pier. There was a bump and he slammed the propeller into reverse, threw his bag over the side and leaped across. “Throw your bag. Jump,” he called.

  Maj. Miller flew onto the pier, went down on his knees, and grabbed his bag.

  “Come on!” Durell darted into the jungle, followed by the major. A bullet cut twigs in his path. He ducked behind a tree, looked back, and saw the fishing boat heading out to sea.

  The air was steaming. Insects. hummed and buzzed. Wind rattled the foliage.

  He heard his blood thumping.

  “You circle one way. I’ll go the other,” he told Maj. Miller.

  The pudgy officer nodded.

  Durell scrambled up a slope, fighting creepers and brambles, fronds and branches. He took a moment to get his bearings, slapped a mosquito, listening. Sweat stung his eyes. He was tempted to unholster his .38, but reconsidered. No one had been harmed yet, and a gunfight might prove a tragic mistake. He guessed he’d come about the right distance to circle behind his quarry. He turned toward the sea, placing each step silently. Spears of sunlight fell through the treetops; spongy humus gave way to stone underfoot. He could see patches of sky through the jungle ahead, indicating he had returned almost to the water’s edge.

  “Stop right there, mister.”

  The words came from his rear, and he felt the muzzle of a rifle in his back. The voice was a woman’s.

  “Put the gun down. Can’t we talk?” he said.

  “There’s no need for talk; you’re going straight back where you came from.”

  “The bo
at’s gone.”

  “Then I hope you like to swim. March.” She poked him with the gun.

  He spun, used his elbow to knock the muzzle aside, and easily twisted the weapon from her grasp, throwing her backwards. He was surprised to find himself holding a collector’s gun, a beautifully chased Weatherby .300 Magnum Mark V with a carved stock. The woman was dressed in jeans and a simple print blouse; long, rippled hair the colors of chestnut and mahogany framed a face that, behind its rage, had the round, regular features of a midwestem cheerleader. She had fallen and glared at him with iridescent blue eyes. She lunged, hissing with fury, swinging a heavy rock at his face. He threw the rifle aside and grabbed her; it went off.

  “Sam! You all right?” Maj. Miller called.

  “We’re over here,” Durell shouted. Deftly, he spun the woman and pinned her arms to her sides. She was small and light and nicely curved. She kicked his shins and tried to sink her claws into him.

  “Let me go!” she cried.

  “Okay, when you’ll listen and stop trying to brain me.” He tightened his grip. A pinched cry of pain caught in her throat. “I don’t like hurting you,” he told her. “Who are you?” His information was that there were two women on the island: Mrs. Muncie Plettner and Mrs. Tina Durso. Mrs. Durso was the nineteen-year-old wife of Dr. Plettner’s secretary, Ronald Durso. Durell took a guess. “Mrs. Durso?”

  “What? No, you gorilla!” She seemed further angered, as if insulted—he surmised she didn’t care much for the Durso woman. “Muncie Plettner, then?” he said.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m Sam Durell. I’m here on government business.”

  “You’re trespassing.” Her teeth found his arm and sank into the muscle. Pain and anger flashed through him; he threw her away, and she hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of her. She looked dazed and shocked. He yanked her up and shook her so hard her hair fell across her face.