Assignment Maltese Maiden

by Edward S. Aarons

  Skoll looked back, grinning, as Durell fired with care. The Russian’s pace lost its rhythm and he staggered, went to one knee, picked himself up again, and then stood very still. There were no more shots from the hillside.

  “Damon!”

  “I’m hit!”

  “Come on.”

  The studious-looking man reached the truck a step behind Saad. Saad’s face was twisted with fright. Damon looked disgusted. “It’s my arm.”

  “Did you see who they were?”

  “Other Beduwi, I think.”

  Durell turned. “Skoll, come back here!”

  “You are not a good marksman,” the Russian panted. He limped a little as he returned. “You only skinned my thigh.”

  “That’s where I aimed. I want you alive.” Durell went back to the cab and picked up the radio packet and put it safely away on the floor. He searched the hillside with grim, sweeping glances. Nothing was to be seen.

  “Saad?”

  “Yes, effendi. I did not betray you. I am pleased you did not hurt my son.”

  “What did those men say before the shooting began?” “The soldiers are waiting for us, two miles up the road. They asked if we had passed, and when these people said no, they realized we were behind them. So they wait for us.”

  Durell studied the hillside. Green, iridescent flies began to buzz around them in thick swarms. “How many men are up there?”

  “Only three or four,” Damon said. He was bleeding from a scratch wound in the shoulder. Durell watched Skoll slump against the rear of the truck. Damon said, “I don’t know why they quit shooting at us.”

  “All right. Carlo, got any idea where the soldiers might be waiting?”

  Perozzo said, “Kassim Pass. Has to be. It’s two miles on, near the junction where this road swings east again back to Yafran and Tripoli. I remember it pretty well.” “Can we get by?”

  “On goat trails, maybe. What about the water for the truck? There’s the village well—”

  “All right. We’ll chance a few minutes more here.”

  Durell felt trapped. He could see the gleam of triumph in Cesar Skoll’s pale eyes. The Russian was already bandaging his leg in a matter-of-fact manner, stoic against the pain. Their glances met for a moment.

  “I owe you something, Cesar,” Durell said thinly. “You claimed you wanted to work with me.”

  “Not any more. You are crazy. It is hopeless, but you wish to go on. I do not like to die for nothing.”

  Durell turned to Perozzo. “Could we turn back?”

  The Italian shook his head. “They’ll have roadblocks behind us now. We ought to get rid of the truck.”

  “We will, when we can.”

  A camel was tethered near the stone-edged well, and Saad urged the beast forward. The bucket came up, slopping with water, on a pulley. Perozzo grabbed it and ran back and carefully filled the hot radiator. Steam gushed up around him and he winced, wrung his hand, and in a moment climbed back into the truck behind the wheel and started the engine again. Ahead, the hills and cliffs showed the green of gypsum, yellow sandstone, and here and there the basalt was black against pink sand. A hundred yards beyond the village, they turned off the highway and bounced across a gravel slope that threatened to tip them over at any moment. Durell could not make out the trail that Perozzo followed. When he could look down the pass beyond the curve in the highway, he saw three Arabs at about a half-mile distance, armed with rifles. They shook their weapons threateningly, but kept plodding away from the village.

  “Wait, Carlo. Keefe, go get them.”

  “All three?”

  “They’re heading for the military waiting up there.” Keefe grinned. “Right.”

  Perozzo stopped the truck. Keefe jumped out and ran up the pass toward the distant men. The wadi walls were streaked rust-red from iron in the limestone and gave off a bloody reflection from the hot sun. Durell watched for a moment, then picked up his radio and began calling Hammersmith. In the three minutes it took to get an acknowledgment, he saw that the three Beduwi had paused to wait, while Keefe ran on a dodging course toward them. Heat shimmered in tangible waves in the wadi. The red loom of the Jabal Nafusah blocked out everything to the south. The wind was still strong, but there was no sand here, and the African sky was a blaze of blue-white heat overhead.

  The radio suddenly clattered in Durell’s ear.

  “Pitcher’s mound to Catcher. Are you there, Catcher?”

  “Here, Pitcher. It’s a new ball game.”

  “What inning is it?”

  “Bottom of the seventh. No chance.”

  “Anybody knocked out of the box?”

  “One. And two injuries.” Durell looked at Skoll, who watched him with amused blue eyes. There was nothing unusual about transmitting in this area in plain English. The Sixth Fleet’s maneuvers had made it nearly normal to catch mysterious messages on almost any radio band. “Pitcher, don’t wait,” Durell said. “Coach was right. Tell it to the dugout, will you? Make it soonest. We don’t have the star yet, but Hurler has been here. Got that?”

  Fisher’s voice on Hammersmith came in with troubled overtones. “Catcher, are you all right?”

  “Finest, so far. Just a delay in the ball game.”

  “How many innings do you estimate?”

  “We’ll be here for overtime,” Durell said. “Take a seventh-inning stretch.”

  He snapped off the transceiver and put it back in its waterproof case. From the wadi between the towering brown and red cliffs came a sudden crackle of gunfire. Keefe’s machine-pistol, he thought. The burst of firing seemed overlong. Keefe enjoyed his work. He saw dust and a thin plume of smoke far up the pass where Keefe had gone for the three Arab riflemen. For a time, he saw no other movement. Then Keefe appeared, running at an easy, confident lope back to the truck.

  Durell sighed and told Perozzo to start the engine again.

  Perozzo looked unhappy, watching Keefe approach, and said, “The military waiting for us up there might have heard all those shots.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  Keefe scrambled aboard by the tailgate as Perozzo slammed the truck angrily into gear. Keefe almost fell off as the truck lurched ahead, and he shouted in anger. Perozzo pretended not to hear.

  Chapter 10

  Durell watched the sun come up, hugging his knees against the dawn chill. Somehow, they had coaxed the old truck through the long night, rejoining the main highway east of Al Jawsh. With Perozzo’s knowledge of the Gefara, they had gone around the sleeping towns of Yafra and Bir al Ghanam, and had gotten to within twenty miles of Tripoli before the truck finally and irrevocably broke down.

  Keefe had been working on it for two hours now. This close to Tripoli, there were patches of blue-green wheat fields, a few walled farmhouses, and telephone lines strung along the road. They had managed to get the truck into a clump of huge old olive trees some hundred yards from the highway, and the men were effectively hidden from the occasional oil truck or cycle that sped to and from the city. Damon, his shoulder wound bandaged, had investigated the nearby stone house. It had been built by a colonial Italian orchard grower, and there were still some peach, fig and almond trees that had escaped the ruthless Beduwi demand for firewood. Nearby were some old ruins, a yellow arch and limestone columns crumbling under the pale dawn sky. The farmhouse was empty, Damon said. A good place to hole up for a while. Durell had no intention of staying here long.

  He watched the light grow in the east as it had twenty-four hours ago, when they raided the villa. There was no wind now. Saad and his boy were asleep under a thin blanket. Perozzo also slept, in the truck cab. The only sounds were the occasional clinks and bangs from Keefe as he tried to clean the carburetor. The metallic noises seemed to reach a long way through the gnarled olive trees that might have been planted two thousand years ago by Roman settlers.

  As far as Durell could tell, the militia hunting for them had given up, after midnight.

  “Comrade Cajun,�
�� Skoll rumbled, “do you never sleep?” The Russian sat down beside him with a grunt of irritation, holding his injured leg. “It is difficult for me to rest, when I know you have your Q clearance and will kill me. Either you or that man of yours, Keefe, eh? Keefe likes to kill, I think.”

  “He’s good at his work.”

  “But he will cause you trouble, if he does not obey better.” Skoll sighed. “So what will you do with me? Whatever it is, you do it, Comrade Cajun. Do not turn me over to Keefe. I will answer your questions, of course. I wish we had some more vodka. This wine, this Rosso d’Africa, is terrible stuff for my particular palate. It is all gone anyway, and I am hungry.”

  “Get up,” Durell said. “Now. While Keefe works on the engine.”

  Skoll climbed heavily to his feet. His limp was exaggerated, Durell thought, as they walked toward the empty Italian farmhouse. Damon had left the heavy blue-painted plank door open. A yellow hand of Fatima, daughter of the Prophet, had been indented in the planking for good luck. Beyond the door was a tiny paved court, some straggling rosebushes, and a long shed that smelled of goats. The absent owner was a little more affluent than most farmers here. There was even a television set, ten years old, obviously an American cast-off or theft from the former US airbase at Wheelus Field at Mellaha. The power was off, and Durell traced the line of wires back across several leaning poles to the highway. A small terrace was in the rear, with some heavily carved wooden chairs. A pile of broken Oea beer bottles was swept into a far corner.

  Skoll shivered. “It is cold here. Very lonely.”

  “A good place to die,” Durell said.

  “But we are old friends, Comrade Cajun!”

  “We were never friends.”

  “You are so desperate, you will kill me?”

  “I don’t have to kill you. Just maim you. Retire you once and for all from the KGB and the business.”

  “You have changed, old friend.”

  “No.”

  “Or you are desperate.”

  “It’s important, Skoll. You’re going to talk.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” The Russian sighed heavily and started to sit down close to Durell, and Durell waved him aside to stand across the terrace, where there could be no chance that Skoll could reach his gun. “Yes, yes. You are a careful man,” the Russian said. “Ah, it is not a pleasant business we are in, you and I.”

  “But you’re very good at it.” Durell looked tall and dark with his back to the growing dawn light. “Almost too good, Cesar. This morning’s work might kill you.”

  “No, no. No need for that. I will cooperate. Why not? We both want the same thing. We both want to see Madame Hung dead.”

  “I want McFee back,” Durell said. “And his papers.”

  “Ah. Yes. There we differ. If I can, I will take him. But as for the Chinese lady—”

  “How did you get into it?”

  Skoll waved a slab of a hand like a bear’s paw. “It was in Hong Kong. We had a certain Chinese gentleman, a

  Hong Kong millionaire, oh, a very rich capitalistic type under surveillance. My boss in Moscow thought that this man, this Liu Tze Lee-—very Americanized, by the way, elderly, clever, smooth and fat—this Liu Tze Lee and his son were trading in information with Peking through Hung’s organization.”

  “You really think she is still alive?”

  “We know she is. She is here. Somewhere. All around us. A terrible creature, eh?”

  “What about this Hong Kong merchant?”

  “He recently sailed on his yacht—last month—named the East Wind. Beautiful vessel, six staterooms, personal chef from the Pink Orchid in Hong Kong, twin Rolls-Royce diesels, completely oceangoing—he sailed for the Mediterranean. He is somewhere here now. I was assigned to follow and watch, to catch him at his business. All I have learned so far is that he is not a happy man.”

  “Why not?”

  “He never leaves his boat.”

  “But you’ve seen him?”

  “No. But I have seen Madame Hung.”

  “On the East Wind?”

  Skoll grinned. “Yes. In Tripoli. And there were inquiries made about a Signorina Anna-Maria Bertollini. So we took over her villa. And you came. And that is all.”

  “What about McFee? How did you know he is in it?”

  “Ah,” said Skoll.

  “It would be best if you told me,” Durell said quietly.

  “No.”

  “But you knew there was a connection between the girl and General McFee?”

  “Yes. I learned this.”

  “How?”

  Skoll was silent. Durell weighed the pistol in his hand. There was a finality about Skoll’s attitude that admitted no choice. Durell could give it up or kill the man. Torture would get nothing from the Siberian. And there wasn’t time for fine games. In any case, Skoll knew all of them, perhaps better than he. This business of a Chinese millionaire from Hong Kong might or might not mean anything. Skoll could be lying. It was just a tantalizing new element in the picture that needed evaluation.

  “Hung is after your boss, Durell,” Skoll rumbled. “He is the biggest game of all, eh? He is loose, alone, and unprotected. The king on the chess board, drawn out of his comer. In his brain is a fortune in information, organizational data, that both my boss and Peking will pay millions for. Hung wants him alive. I think she knows where he is and what he is doing. It is a most unusual situation, having your general wander alone on a confused battlefield. McFee becomes fair prey for anyone, eh? But Madame Hung, I think, will have him. And I shudder to think of what she will do to him. You have met her before. You know that terrible woman’s abilities. If she gets McFee, you can forget about him forever. He will never be the same. I do not care how strong-minded he is. He will either be dead, crippled, or mad. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. Let’s go back,” Durell said.

  “You are satisfied?”

  “No. But let’s go back to the truck.”

  Keefe was still working on the engine. Long shafts of light began to reach through the olive and almond trees. Damon was asleep. Durell walked over to Saad and his young son. Both were still huddled together, amid the ever-present swarms of green flies that buzzed around them. The old man was praying toward Mecca, murmuring the ninety-nine beautiful names of Allah, in submission to His will. The boy opened his eyes as Durell approached, and looked at him with hatred.

  “I am hungry,” Ahmad said. “How long will you keep my poor father and me here? We have done no wrong. We are poor people, honest people, and we work hard. Why do you keep us with you like this?”

  “Do you always work with your father in the truck?”

  “Always. Since I was eight years old.”

  The old man finished praying and spoke sharply to the boy, who subsided. “Effendi, effendi,” the old man said to

  Durell, “we will do as you wish and answer your questions as well as we can, if you promise to let us live. Life is the gift of Allah. If it is His wish that we die, then we die, but it is not a thing any man wants. Allah’s will is Allah’s will.”

  Durell nodded. “Our only interest is in the young Signorina Bertollini. We mean no harm to your country. We wish to find the lady and ask her about matters that do not concern Libya. This is the truth. If you help us, we will be grateful.”

  “What can I do?” Saad asked. “I believe you. I will help you.”

  “You went to the Bertollini villa every week, to deliver food and supplies?”

  “Yes. A fine young woman, for an Italian.” Saad smiled faintly, showing crooked teeth. “A bit modern, for my taste. A woman should be kept in privacy, not allowed to exhibit her body to the gaze and desires of other men.”

  “But she was not married?”

  “La, effendi. No, sir. Still, she was interested in a man, a young Chinese—”

  “Chinese?”

  “The two Chinese ladies who visited the signorina last week had two men with them. One was Albanian, a coarse man wi
th bad manners. The other was a young Chinese. I think he loved the signorina.”

  “And did she love him?”

  “I think so, effendi. Their behavior—” Saad shrugged. “Malesh. No matter. Their business is their business. As a tradesman, I was not noticed. We were part of the walls, the sea, the sky. They looked through us. But we have ears and eyes, eh?” Saad paused. “I did not like the older Chinese lady.”

  “Her name?”

  “I did not hear it. Although she was not so old, and perhaps beautiful, she seemed old in a sense—” Saad paused, and shuddered suddenly. “I have never seen this thing called snow, from the northern countries, but she was cold. Even Ahmad was a little afraid of her.”

  “Why? Did she harm you?”

  “No. But Ahmad thought she was an evil djinn. A bad spirit, as in the old days. And Ahmad,” Saad said, smiling indulgently, “thinks of himself as a modem young man.”

  “Would you say the signorina was the Chinese lady’s prisoner, in the Contessa’s own home?”

  Saad thought about it. “It is difficult to know. I only sold them vegetables. The Chinese young man—he was like an American. Very attentive to the Signorina Bertollini. His name was Lee. The signorina called him that. Is it not so, Ahmad?”

  The boy nodded sullenly. Saad said, “Ahmad said he saw them kissing in front of him. A disgraceful thing for a boy to see.” The Arab smiled. “Of course, Ahmad says he knows all about life. All boys are wiser than their fathers, eh?”

  “This Lee,” Durell insisted. “Was he a prisoner, too, do you think?”

  “He obeyed the Chinese woman. I do not think he liked to. That is all I can say. How much can a man see and tell when he delivers vegetables? Let Allah be my witness, I have told you all I know.”

  “I believe you,” Durell said.

  He stood up and saw Perozzo plodding back through the orchard. He had stationed himself near the highway to watch for traffic going by. The Italian’s gray hair took on a tinge of golden color as the morning light brightened, and Durell began to feel the sting of the North African sun. “What is it, Carlo?”

  Perozzo halted. He had his gun in his hand. His eyes looked hopeless. “They’ve found us, Sam.”