“It’s hot here,” Durell said. “We’ll take a walk up there. Fine panorama of the whole island, as long as you want to sight-see. I didn’t tell you to turn into the gate.”
“I don’t care what you said or didn’t say. I want to know where we’re going.”
Keefe turned, kept one heavy forearm on the wheel of the Volkswagen, and the other dipped under his blue linen jacket. His tawny eyes were nervous and suspicious.
Durell said, “I’m trying to get a lead on where Deirdre might be.”
“Out here?”
“Anywhere.”
“Why take me? What’s the mystery?”
“No mystery,” Durell said. “If you don’t want to see the view from the north wall, let’s get on to Dingli.”
“Why? What’s there?”
“The sea.”
“You son of a bitch, what’s the matter with you?” “Nothing much,” Durell said.
“Just because your girl was snatched—”
“Yes. Just because. Take your hand off your gun, Keefe. You’re supposed to be working for me, remember.”
“I’m not so sure of that, any more.”
“Start driving.”
“Not until you tell me—”
Durell’s gun was in his hand before Keefe could twitch an eye. The little square in the center of the drowsy little town was practically empty. There were no tourists at the moment, and the driver of the blue bus stood picking his teeth across the way, in front of a small cafe. The old houses and palazzos, mostly of Aragonese tradition, looked dark and gloomy in the hot sunlight. The shadows were ebony, the light a burst of pain upon the retinas.
Keefe licked his lips.
Durell said, “Let’s see your right hand. Slowly.”
“I wasn’t going to do anything, Cajun.”
“That’s correct. Now start the car. Dingli.”
“What are you sore about?”
“Drive, Keefe.”
They left Mdina by way of Villegaigon Street, which took them out again through the walls past the Palazzo Falzon’s Norman House and the Tower of the Standard, dark and menacing against the white-hot sky. The adjacent town of Rabat, separated from Mdina by the city wall, had Roman villas open for tourists, catacombs, and Saqqajja Hill, a steep slope upward with a square and another bus terminal from Valetta. Keefe drove the Volkswagen faster, down Nikol Saura Street and finally Buskett Road, which led to the westernmost shore of Malta and the town of Dingli.
In less than a mile, there was a fork in the road and a signpost to Dingli. Durell said, “Bear right,” and kept his gun on his thigh. Keefe was sweating, licking his lips. This land was the highest on the island, over eight hundred feet above the sea, with tall cliffs and footpaths through rocky outcroppings of scrub brush, gorse, and the chasm of the Wied ir-Rum. Durell told Keefe to keep going, past the Verdala Palace, a fortified villa set in tall, dark green firs, built high above the wied with a view of the western sea far below.
“Turn left,” Durell said.
“I don’t see any road.”
“Down those tracks.”
“Listen, where are we going?”
They came out of the aromatic stand of firs to another desolate area of rock and scrub, the very edge of the cliffs towering above the sea.
“Stop here,” Durell said.
The wind off the sea blew hot and wet. The sun was implacable. Far down, the sound of combers crashing against the base of the cliffs was borne on the wind. Seagulls screamed far below. No one else was in sight, although a posted walk skirted the edge of the cliff and a wooden rail protected strollers from the sheer drop to the rocks below.
Keefe pulled up the hand brake. His greenish eyes squinted against the glare of the sun on the sea.
“Look, Sam.”
“Put your gun on the floor, between your feet.”
“Sam—”
“Do it.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“If I have to,” Durell said.
“Why?”
“The gun,” Durell insisted.
Keefe did as he was told, very carefully. Then he got out of the car and walked slowly toward the wooden railing beside the footpath. Durell held his gun ready, following. The sun hit them like a white-hot hammer. The gulls screamed hundreds of feet below the sheer edge of the cliff. Keefe turned his back to the sea and looked at Durell.
“What’s here? Why take me here, Cajun?”
Durell said, “It’s simple. It’s about Deirdre. You know where she is and who took her.”
“I swear to God—”
“Don’t swear. Just tell the truth.”
“I told you all I saw, Cajun!”
“I hate traitors,” Durell said.
Keefe grunted. “And you’re a great patriot. So what?” “Deirdre would not have left the room unless I told her to do so. I didn’t tell her anything of the kind. She knew the danger. Just the same, she got her handbag and dressed to go out. She went down to the lobby. Why?”
“Cajun, I don’t—”
“You were downstairs, eating on the terrace. You could see the lobby. You telephoned the room and got her down.”
“Cajun, I don’t see how you can believe—”
“It’s the only way she’d have down to the lobby. Nobody else could have put her where those men could grab her.”
Keefe was facing east, squinting into the sun. His eyes were watery green slits in his square face. He looked ugly, as if he were already dead.
“Who bought you, Keefe?” Durell asked.
Keefe laughed. It came out as a guttural croak. “You’ve really flipped about Deirdre, haven’t you? Not very professional, Cajun. Not the way to keep your eye on target.”
“I haven’t much time,” Durell said.
“Ah, you won’t use that gun.”
“Yes, I will.”
Keefe smiled. He leaned against the wooden railing, apparently relaxed, sure of himself. “You really believe I lured Deirdre Padgett downstairs so those Chinks could grab her?”
“You said you couldn’t see their faces. You didn’t say they were Chinese, when I asked you before.”
“Well, who else could they be?”
Durell said, “So you sold out to Madame Hung. For how much?”
“To hell with you.”
“I won’t ask again. It had to be a lot of money.”
“Suppose I say yes, I did it? Suppose I say you have to do what Madame Hung asks, or Deirdre and McFee are dead by sundown? What then?”
“Is that the ultimatum?”
“I’ve got half a million in a Swiss bank, right now, in Geneva. Why should I break my ass for people like you? I’m sick of the business. I’ve spent years living in the boondocks. After this, I’m retiring. I know where to go. Don’t give me any crap about K Section hunting me down, even if it takes years. You’ll never find me.”
Durell said calmly, “What does Hung want?”
“She wants you, Cajun. Maybe she’s running scared, with the Russians and Peking ganging up on her. I wouldn’t know.” Keefe sounded stronger, more confident now. Perhaps he thought he had won his reprieve. “I’m not supposed to tell you all this. You’re getting a phone call at noon, to go to Gozo. Hung is at Anna-Marie’s villa on Gozo. Place is like a fort, an old Roman tower, you couldn’t get near it before Deirdre and McFee get their throats slit.”
“Hung has McFee too?” Durell asked quietly.
“But not the Pilgrim Project papers. Maybe the lady is a bit greedy. McFee is no good to her dead, right? He’s a prize package, worth millions to Moscow or Peking. They could milk him dry. K Section would be kaput. You’ll have to build it over again, from the ground up. How long would that take, Cajun? A year, maybe? In a year, the way the world is, with Washington left with just one eye, half-blind, anything could happen, right? That’s her game. I don’t give a damn about it, one way or another. I’m sick of it all, you see. All I want is to collect that half-million.”
“You never will,” Durell said quietly.
“If I haven’t reported at noon, before Hung calls you, Deirdre gets her throat cut. After some of her Chinks have some fun with her, of course, She’s a choice piece.”
A muscle knotted briefly along Durell’s jaw. “I could take that chance.”
“Not if you want to see your girl alive again.”
Durell said, “You forget something, Keefe.”
“Yeah?”
“If I give myself to Hung, she’ll kill me.”
Keefe grinned. “That’d be up to her.”
“And I couldn’t accept her word that Deirdre will be released. My job is to get McFee free. And find the Pilgrim papers. Hung won’t let McFee go, either. So I’d lose all around.”
Keefe said, “Wait a minute. She’ll let Deirdre go. She said so.”
“Would you believe her?” Durell asked. “Do you really believe she’d give a punk like you, a defector, a double agent, half-a-million dollars? And let you keep it? Let you live to enjoy it?”
“She said—”
“You don’t know Hung. I feel sorry for you, Keefe.” “Look, Cajun—”
“Goodbye, Keefe.”
Durell raised his gun. Keefe’s hand moved fast, pulling the knife from under his shirt. Durell let him do it. It was academic, anyway. The knife flashed wickedly in the hot sun. The wind blew at Keefe’s back, bellying his shirt open. Keefe was grinning. The knife came fast, but Durell’s gun slammed once, then again, just an instant before the blade left Keefe’s hand. Keefe was good. The knife would have thudded squarely into Durell’s heart if he hadn’t fired first. As it was, it flicked into the fleshy muscle of Durell’s left shoulder. A black spot appeared between Keefe’s eyes, and brain, blood, and bone splinters spattered out of the back of his head. The second shot hit him in the chest and knocked him backward over the wooden fence, onto the three-foot strip of bare rock between the fence and the edge of the cliff. Durell jumped forward and caught Keefe’s body before it went over.
Blood dripped down Durell’s left arm. He paid no attention to it and left the knife where it was. As quickly as possible, he stripped Keefe’s body, rolled the slacks and shirt, socks and shoes, into a tight wad. He used the man’s belt to tie Keefe’s hands behind his back. Then he searched Keefe’s pockets, aware of a growing numbness in his wounded arm.
The wind had carried away the sound of his two shots. Nobody appeared, although far in the distance along the edge of the Dingli cliffs he saw something move, and two figures appeared half a mile away. The sunlight made it difficult to identify them, but they were not running, and they could not have heard the gunfire. Tourists, maybe. A couple strolling along. He didn’t want them to find Keefe’s body so soon. He rolled the heavy corpse toward the edge of the cliff and pushed it over. He watched as the body struck an outcropping of rock, bounced, then fell again, eight hundred feet down, into the surge of the white sea that battered the base of the cliff.
For a moment afterward, he saw the body moving in the white water. Then it sank under the lip of the cliff.
Durell straightened slowly. The knife had gone over an inch into the fleshy part of his upper arm. He gritted his teeth and pulled it out. No great gush of arterial blood followed. He was lucky. He took Keefe’s shirt and tore it into strips, using his right hand and teeth to make a tight bandage. Then he picked up the rest of Keefe’s clothes and walked slowly back toward the parked Volkswagen.
The approaching tourists were not much closer. The keys were still in the ignition. But when he turned it, the rented car wouldn’t start.
He tried it again, swearing softly. And again. Finally the engine coughed, sputtered, racketed into life. He backed quickly, drove over the bumpy open area toward the stand of firs, practically the only wooded area on all of Malta. Halfway through the trees on the way back to the road, he stopped again, but left the engine running, walked a short way through the aromatic woods, and shoved Keefe’s clothing out of sight in a thick grove of saplings.
The Maltese police were good, British-trained. But it would take them some time to recover Keefe’s body, even if an unlucky tide washed it ashore where it could be seen. Then the police would have to find Keefe’s clothes to identify him. The fake passport at the hotel would give Keefe’s cover identity, nothing more, and that wouldn’t mean anything. Eventually, of course, they might come up with someone in Mdina or at the hotel who had seen them leave together.
Make it twenty-four hours, Durell thought.
He needed all the time he could get.
Chapter 19
Perozzo pursed his lips and said, “The bastard. He always rubbed me the wrong way, Sam, right from the start.”
“It’s water under the dam, Carlo.”
“Right from the start, Sam. It was his fault that Charley Mills was killed in Libya. You’re sure he’s dead?”
“I’m sure,” Durell said flatly.
Anna-Marie said, “So you’re a killer, too.”
Perozzo started to speak impatiently to the girl, then went back to dressing Durell’s shoulder. “We ought to get a doctor to look at this, Sam.”
“Not now.”
Anna-Marie said, “I think it’s horrible. You’re like people in a nightmare.”
“A doctor, Sam,” Perozzo said. “You need some stitches taken. I can’t guarantee this will hold.”
“It will have to,” Durell said. “Anna-Marie, he mentioned your villa on Gozo. Did Madame Hung know of it?”
“She seemed to know all about me.”
Durell looked at the phone in the hotel room. It was past noon, but it had not rung. He had no doubt that the Phoenicia was under tight surveillance, perhaps by Colonel Skoll and by Major Won, but certainly by Madame Hung’s men. They’d seen him leave in the car with Keefe, seen him return alone. He did not expect the telephone to ring.
“Is it hard to find?” he asked the girl. “Keefe said your house was like a fort, an old Norman place.”
“That’s right. I haven’t been there since last winter, though.”
“Is it hard to get into?” Durell insisted.
“I suppose so. I never thought about it. Yes.”
“We’ll go there,” he said.
Perozzo said, “Like hell. Are you crazy?”
“I believe what Keefe said. He was trying to talk me into saving his life. McKee is there. So is Deirdre. Most of all, so is Madame Hung.”
“What about East Wind?” Perozzo asked. “I thought she’d be aboard the yacht.”
“Too risky for her. She’d be trapped if the yacht were boarded.” Durell walked to the window, where he could see the pier where the East Wind had been moored.
The pier was empty.
“When did she sail?”
The girl said, “An hour ago. I watched her anchor come up. She went out past Fort St. Elmo and headed north.”
“Toward Gozo?”
She nodded. “And Lee is aboard, Sam. I told you, I want him back safe and sound, just as you want your girl back.”
“The yacht didn’t turn into Marsamxett Harbor?”
“No.”
“Maybe at Comino?”
“No. Nothing but posh hotels there in the channel.” Durell went into the bathroom and took two aspirins against the growing pain in his shoulder. He came back and put on his jacket, and Perozzo and the girl simply watched him. “We’d better pack some food, cold stuff, that won’t spoil too fast. We’ll stake out the villa this afternoon. See what we can see. No moves until dark. Bring the binoculars, Carlo.”
Perozzo said, “Won’t you consider making a deal?” “No,” Durell said.
They were at the door when the phone rang. Carlo made a small sound in his throat. Anna-Marie looked expectant. The phone rang again, and Durell turned back and picked it up. He said nothing. There was a moment of silence from the other end, and then a man’s voice spoke with jovial heartiness.
“Comrade Cajun? It is I, Cesar Skoll.”
>
“So you made it here,” Durell said.
“Of course, of course. I have arrived, like the US Cavalry in the Western cinemas, to save you.”
“Do I need help?”
“Comrad Cajun, we must be frank with each other. You have lost your little Fräulein, eh?”
“I know where she is,” Durell said.
“Ho. We do, too.”
“We?”
“Major Won and I. He was very annoyed with you. These Chinese have a fine sense of pride. He was insulted that you refused his hand in friendship.”
“So he could stab me with his other hand?”
“You are too suspicious, my friend. You cannot play a lone hand in this affair.”
“How did you find me?”
“Come, come. We are in the same business, eh? I have assembled a new crew. I have four new men, all specialists. Major Won has several men, too, all very good, I think, but not as good as you and I could be, working together. You need me, tovarich.”
“Like a hole in the head.”
“Ha ha. It would be sad if your pride caused the lovely Miss Padgett to die.”
“It’s still no deal, Cesar.”
“But if you consider a pooling of our resources—”
“No deal.”
Durell hung up. Perozzo watched him, his olive face grave. Anna-Marie put on her big cosmetic sunglasses, and he could not tell what was in her eyes.
He turned in the Volkswagen, and they took a taxi into Valetta and he told the driver to go down Duke of York Avenue into St. Ursula Street, along the walls of the Knights of St. John that loomed over Grand Harbor. The hundreds of church bells from the baroque cathedrals and chapels of Valetta all began to chime at once. It must be some saint’s day, he thought. The image of Madame Hung’s face and oblique obsidian eyes still lingered in the back of his mind. There was heavy bus and cycle traffic. Durell had the taxi stop at St. Ursula’s, on the comer of Archbishop Street, and they walked northward, with Anna-Marie between them, toward Merchant’s Street. Turning left again, they went to the Maltese Tourist Board office and nearby found another car-rental place. This time he chose a small Fiat. He kept looking for signs that they were being followed. He was surprised that he could detect no one behind them. He got road maps, ferry tickets, and changed some currency into Maltese pounds and shillings. He had the attendant telephone for a ferry booking between Malta and Gozo, and then said to Anna-Marie, “You do the driving. Don’t rush.”
Assignment Maltese Maiden Page 13