"I was. A long time ago."
"Then you would not recognize him today."
"Perhaps not. But I must see him."
"He is not here. Search if you wish. I do not care. He is gone, bag and baggage. The moment he was able to wobble away on his fat legs." Dr. Gehman-DeWitte drew a deep, shaky breath, yanked open his desk, pawed among papers, and tossed down a check drawn on a Swiss bank for a sum equivalent to twenty thousand American dollars, payable to the Hospital of St. Homerius. "Never again," the doctor whispered. "It is not enough. I will not tell you what indignities he inflicted upon me and my staff while he was here. But never again."
Durell said, "And he left this morning?"
"In his own car. A Mercedes. He drove it himself."
"Do you know where he went?"
Dr. Gehman-DeWitte flung out his arms. "To Cannes, of course. To his villa there."
Durell drove to the French Riviera that night, stopping at a small pensione near the French-Italian border for four hours of sleep. He was not followed. He was careful on the Alpine highways going south during the night, thinking of Major Kolia Mikelnikov's mission, but nothing happened. He slept with a gun at his hand in a rough farmhouse that took in European tourists. He rigged the heavy door so no one could touch it without waking him at once, and his window overlooked the dooryard, a sheer drop of over thirty feet. He slept lightly, but without interruption, ate breakfast with the Italian farmer and his wife, speaking to them in their dialect, and then drove on through the customs barrier into France.
At Cannes, he did not bother hunting for a place to sleep. He phoned Haggarty, then went down to the waterfront beyond the beaches and the expensive hotels. Cannes was full of Americans. The sun shone, the sea sparkled, the Gallic air was gay and festive. He drove to an inexpensive hotel near La Bourginon and asked for a man named Leonard Cato. He was advised by the clerk that Cato could be found, as always, at the Miramar. Durell telephoned, mentioned his name, accepted an invitation for a drink, and drove back to meet Leonard Cato at the Cafe de Paris.,
Cato was an American expatriate whose column of Riviera gossip was eagerly read by the world of fashionable nobility and caf6 society that haunted the beaches of the Mediterranean, as well as the clubs of Rome and Paris. Sometimes Cato's items were reprinted by Stateside news syndicates. He was a neat and elegant man, and all traces of his home town of Emporia, Kansas, were long since buried beneath his cultivated continental manner. He looked like a perfumed clerk from a Paris fashion salon, but his small eyes were sharp and intelligent and his handshake was remarkably firm as he greeted Durell.
He did not know Durell was in K Section. But Cato had often been tapped for past services, and he knew at once that more demands were about to be made of him. He was reasonably trustworthy and his information was dependable. Durell had met him several times on past assignments.
"My dear boy," Cato greeted him. "What brings you out of the swampy bayous of Louisiana Province to this decadent splendor?"
Durell ordered ap6ritifs and considered the crowds of oddly dressed tourists nearby. He saw nothing to concern him. Quietly, he told Cato what he wanted.
"Impossible, dear boy," Cato said promptly.
"I'm sure Amr will remember me," Durell said, "if I can reach him."
"Of course, if he were sober. Or not drugged. Or not wallowing under the imported female flesh he smothers himself with. But it is impossible." Len Cato smiled. "Why renew old acquaintance with this barbarian, Samuel? He is not your type, I assure you."
"It's a business matter, Cato. I'm acting as middleman."
"I see. And you have a generous expense account?"
"Five hundred for you, if you can get me to the prince."
"In dollars?"
"Yes."
Cato said musingly, "I could use the money, my Cajun friend. I will not press you about the principals for whom you act. I can guess. And you've come to the right man, of course. No one in all Europe can help you as I can, Samuel."
"I'm counting on that," Durell said patiently.
"The rumor goes that the prince's private oil preserves will not be in his name much longer, if the Q'adi and Colonel Ta'arife have their way. But I suppose that's a problem best left to the diplomats, eh?" Cato laughed. "Amr has millions cached away in Swiss banks, anyway, I wonder why it is that the good of this world are always poor and noble, and those who are evil seem endowed with luxury and perverted pleasures?"
"That cause-and-effect relationship could be reversed, Cato. Where is he? At his villa near Menton?"
"So they say. It's been a dull season, according to the Count d'Igli. Amr was here briefly. He went aboard the count's yacht. They sailed away and are due back this weekend. If I could work this into a few columns for the Sunday supplements back home this time—"
"No publicity," Durell said. "When can you get me to the prince?"
"This weekend. Four days. D'Igli invited me—"
"Too late," Durell interrupted. "I can't wait four days."
"My dear Samuel, he is at sea, aboard d'Igli's yacht."
"Where did they go?"
Cato sighed. "To Zoraya."
Durell was silent. In the slant of noon sunlight, hot and brilliant through the date palms on the avenue, he saw the passing crowd under the bright awnings, saw the terraces and pennons and animated faces of the passers-by. Leonard Cato suddenly seemed remote. Durell wondered which eyes among those in the passing crowd had found him out and marked him for ensnarement and death. He knew that Mikelnikov, under pressure of direct orders from Moscow, would not give up after the failure in Geneva. It must be important, Durell thought; he, himself, was important because of his potential influence on a dissolute Arabian prince from a tiny sultanate that could turn the world upside down if things went wrong there. Jidrat could erase this bright, gay scene in a rain of deadly ashes that would darken the earth forever. . . .
"Yes, he has sailed to see Zoraya," Cato said suddenly.
"In Elba?" Durell asked.
"Ah, you know of that?"
"I know that she has been living there, in seclusion."
"Zoraya, the fabulous and secret woman of mystery." Cato sighed. His eyes mocked his own words. "She can help you see Amr, if he visits her there—and if she cares to help. You know, they seem to have an agreement. If she insists on seeing him, he consents. It does not happen often. Their meetings, of course, always end in humiliation for her. You know the story, of course . . . married as children—"
"Yes, I know it," Durell said.
"Then go to Zoraya, in Elba. Perhaps you and I, with our Western orientation, will never understand their relationship. But it is as if their destinies are forever intertwined, and they both know this and accept it. They meet now and then, briefly, secretly. Of all the folk in Cannes who would give small fortunes to know where the prince has sailed on d'lglfs yacht, only I know the truth. You see, you get a bargain from me. I am truly a patriot, after all."
"For five hundred dollars," Durell said grimly.
"Payable now." Cato shrugged elegant shoulders. "As to Zoraya's influence on Amr, no one can understand these things. Why she should continue to languish for a sight of his bloated face . . ." Cato laughed again. "I tell you a secret, Samuel. Emotions bore me. Myself, I have none."
"Only greed."
"Ah. True. I sell rumors and speculations. I tell tales of secret meetings between star-crossed people, of a day spent on someone's yacht or on the terrace of an Elbani village. They walk together, hand in hand. They say she is remarkably beautiful. Remarkable. A serene and lovely woman patiently waiting, in medieval seclusion. It will make a classic love story, one day, when it is understood better."
"When did they meet last?" Durell asked.
"Over a year ago, when she retired to Elba. You can depend on it, Samuel—Amr has gone there. My information is always correct."
"All right, Cato." Durell took out his wallet and paid the slender, elegant little man from Emporia, Kans
as. 'Thanks a lot"
"Merci mille tois," Cato said. "Would you mind taking care of the check here, too?"
He drove to Piombino, on the Italian coast, via the Italian Riviera. It was a familiar drive, and he handled his small car expertly on the mountainous coastal roads. Nevertheless, the trip took most of the day and he was too late for the afternoon ferry that sailed between the mainland and the looming mountains of Elba, storied exile of the Emperor Napoleon, seven miles across the water from the coast.
He called Haggarty once more, using the private number in Geneva. 'Tm going on alone. You won't hear from me until I get to Jidrat," he said.
"You seem to be taking the long way around, Cajun. But don't waste time. I've got a dispatch from Washington. The cork is ready to pop off the bottle. Revolution any minute. We need the prince there."
I'll do what I can."
He found a small hotel on the outskirts of the small industrial town with its iron smelters, and ate quietly in the dining room, watching the other travelers who checked in. He saw no one familiar, nothing dangerous, yet his sixth sense nagged at him. He felt that he was being watched.
He slept that night with a chair against the door and his gun ready at hand. The air was heavy and breathless, smelling of the raw molten iron of Piombino's smelters. For some reason this made him recall the smell of the bayous in the heat of summer, and he thought of the shade of the towering gum and cypress trees, the quiet flicker of sunlight on the black water, the hum of insects, the drowsy heat, the sense that all life paused and breathed easily in the heat of the summer afternoon. He slept and dreamed of the bayous, and awoke in the morning with the gun gripped in his hand and sweat bathing his body.
A brassy sun shone on the Mediterranean. He paid to transport his Fiat to the island, and the morning ferry, which ran on a reasonable schedule, took him to the harbor of Porto-ferraio before noon, along with a cluster of tourists, a group of Swedes and Germans, a French hiking club, and Italian relatives of the Elbani from the mainland.
There was a mist over the water that the sun failed to dispel, but the harbor view was impressive with its glimpse of the towering fortifications built by Cosimo I de' Medici to repulse the Dragut of Tripoli in 1552. The battlements stood like dream illustrations from a child's fairy-tale book. Portoferraio's quayside was crowded when they landed, although most of the fishing boats were already out to sea. There was a delay until Durell retrieved his Fiat, and he singled out a tall, thin boy to watch the car while he walked off the quay through the tall Florentine gate cut into the ancient wall of the town. Directly beyond was the cosmopolitan Piazza Cavour, a broad cobblestone street with flagged walks and shops and outdoor caf6s. Durell walked under brightly hued awnings and listened to the chatter in a dozen languages, glimpsed the market stalls of the Piazza della Repubblica, and turned back to the Bar Roma, where he ordered a cappucino.
The same fat Swiss who had followed him in Geneva in those moments before the truck smashed into his telephone booth suddenly appeared out of the passing crowd, walking quickly, wiping his red face with a large handkerchief.
Durell finished his cappucino and watched the fat man make a circuit of the Piazza Cavour without once looking his way.
It was not a coincidence, of course.
The fat man wore a dark suit and a high stiff collar and carried a furled umbrella. Durell considered the umbrella and did not like it. He wondered if the fat man was a deliberate lure to distract his attention, and he searched the other people around him carefully. He concluded that the fat man was alone. The Swiss by this time had gone into the Bar Roma and was talking to the headwaiter. Durell waited until the man came out again, and then it was his turn.
A twenty-dollar bill bought the information he wanted.
Inquiries had been made about the Princess Zoraya. Everyone knew, of course, that she lived in her villa on the Gold Coast, where Roman and exiled Russian nobility still held sway. Yes, the Prince of Jidrat had arrived this morning on the Count d'Igli's yacht. He was at the Count's villa, beyond the walled town of Marciana Alta. Did the signoi know about the hermitage up there, and the Cassetta Napoleone and the Cassetta Walewska? A fine old story about the emperor and his romance during his stay in Elba. Of course, the Elbani embellished the tale each year, for tourists, but the truth of the matter. . .
Durell learned the .way to Zoraya's villa and was advised against driving there without an experienced guide.
For a small fee . . . No, signor, there was no telephone. As for the Swiss gentleman—yes, he was inquiring about the Prince of Jidrat. Everyone does. One rolls the eyes, purses the mouth, looks shocked and delighted. It is said there is already a wild party in progress at d'Igli's villa. The women were brought over from the mainland, of course. Disgraceful, with the poor Princess Zoraya so near at hand. As if the prince deliberately sought to humiliate her. All of Elba discussed the affair. . .
Durell gave the man another twenty dollars and left.
The Swiss had disappeared.
DurelFs car was parked on the sunlit quay, surrounded by passengers for the ferry which was already loading for its return trip to Piombino and the mainland. The tall boy guarded the Fiat ferociously. Durell thanked and paid him, checked directions to Marciana Alta, and drove off through the crowded streets of Portoferraio.
The day was hot. The mist had lifted off the sea, but high in the mountains of the island it clung like thick cotton. Once out of the main port, the Fiat struggled up and up, away from the harbor with its fantastically jutting battlements. Far across the channel, the mainland of Italy loomed through the mist, dimly seen, even as it had been during Napoleon's exile here. The roads were lined with masses of white lilies, wild roses, marguerites, and tiny orchids. There was little traffic. He was careful in passing a line of ox carts and peasants in Elbani costumes. A group of chattering, dark-skinned women fell silent and stared with curious eyes at the little car struggling up from the coastal level. Ahead were woodlands of pine and cypress, chestnut, and almond trees. The road made an abrupt curve around an arm of the mountain and the whole coast suddenly came into view, the length of the island seen as a tumbled, mountainous mass rising from the sea. Everywhere the land fell downward in rugged folds, with vineyards and pastel houses clinging to rocky cliffs. Ahead were the Gold Coast villas, in pinks and greens and creams and yellows, perched above their sandy private beaches.
It was at one of the switchbacks that Durell realized that the fat Swiss was following. He could look back and down the pine-grown slope to the road he had just covered, a hundred feet below. An open Mercedes touring car was coming up fast, raising a tumble of dust behind it. Two men were in it. The one driving was thin; he wore a seersucker suit and a battered Panama straw. Beside him, peering anxiously upward, was the small fat man.
Durell pushed the little Fiat harder, but the series of sharp switchbacks and impossible grades made the car labor and cough and lose momentum. He took his gun and put it on the seat beside him.
The road was wide enough for only a single car, and was guarded at only the most dangerous spots by stone retaining walls. At more than one place in the switchbacks, he could look down upon his pursuers. The Mercedes had closed the distance by half. The fat Swiss looked up, saw the Fiat above him. The sun gleamed on the green spectacles, the round red face, the intense, hunched shoulders.
Then, abruptly, they were in fog.
The mist lay in a high valley just before Marciana Alta. There was a row of huge boulders poised in front of the town gates, a relic of Middle Ages' defenses. But now a village priest in black cassock sat there reading, and old men and women were gossiping near the walls. The whitewashed houses looked unreal in the moving mist as Durell drove through. He could hear the beat of the Mercedes engine now, loud against the village walls. Then the fog was left behind, and the scene below yielded to the reaches of the Gulf of Procchio.
His instructions from the Bar Roma waiter were to take the first cutoff to the left after the
village. He came upon it almost at once, swung the Fiat into an even narrower gravel road, and the grade promptly soared again, through darkening pine and chestnut groves, with only here and there a glimpse of the Gulf and the sea, far below.
But he could not out-run the Mercedes.
He knew he was close to the villa when he suddenly found a proper spot and braked the Fiat in a rolling tumble of dust. The road was wider here, big enough for the Mercedes to go by if the driver so chose. At one edge of the road there was a sharp drop of several hundred feet to a rugged little fiord where the sea made a steady, growling thunder that echoed up through the jagged pines.
The Mercedes careened around the last switchback at a fast pare. The driver and his fat passenger saw Durell's Fiat at the same moment. Durell jumped out of the car and placed the dubious shelter of the little motor between himself and his pursuers. His gun was in his hand, but not visible to the others. He knelt in the dust, as if to examine the right front wheel of the Fiat.
The Mercedes braked, kicked up gravel, rocked to a halt.
The driver got out, slamming the door.
"Juliano, be careful!" the Swiss called in Italian.
"I know my business," the thin man growled. He walked toward Durell at a stiff-legged pace. "You there. You are in trouble?"
"Stay where you are," Durell called quietly.
The man spread his hands. "But we wish to help, signor."
"Then go back. I warn you."
The Swiss said, "Very well, Juliano. Do it quickly."
"Juliano, go back," Durell said. "This man has lied to you—"
"It is only a little pain, signor." The thin man grinned. "Just a little, to even the score for what you did to this gentleman. These things are understood here."
Assignment Zoraya Page 5