Durell forced himself to stand up. His leg trembled. His head throbbed. His thoughts stuck together in his mind like glue. He had never been so tired, so hurt, so weary of everything. His leg buckled and he grabbed at Perozzo to steady himself.
“Samuel?” It was an amused, dry voice. It was McFee. “Samuel, thank you.”
“Sir?”
“Please make these fools understand that it is all over. It’s up to you.”
The salon suddenly seemed crowded. Skoll was at the bar at the far end, where he’d found a bottle of vodka. He drank from it, his bald head tilted back, his cold Siberian eyes mocking. Major Won talked angrily to two of his Chinese thugs. Richenko stood stolidly at the salon door, a machine-pistol in each hand, waiting for orders from Colonel Skoll.
Durell dismissed them all from his thoughts.
On the opposite couch sat McFee and Anna-Marie. The little man now looked as natural as if he sat at his desk in K. Section’s headquarters at No. 20 Annapolis Street. His gray eyes were calm. His hands were folded quietly over his stomach.
From the distant shore at the head of the cove came the hooting of a police siren. A searchlight began to sweep the black water of the inlet, not far from the grounded yacht.
McFee said quietly, “We haven’t much time, Samuel. You must settle this before the police come. There are five dead men aboard and others wounded. It will take too much to explain it all to the police.”
“Yes, sir. I want to see Deirdre.”
“She is fine.”
“I want to see for myself.”
“We have no time just now.”
You little son of a bitch, Durell thought. You never let up, do you? You’ve been playing your own game while the rest of us sweated it out in hell.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
Anna-Marie still wore her big, ornate sunglasses. She reached out and touched McFee’s hand and he held her fingers quietly in his own. She smiled faintly at Durell, but it didn’t seem to mean anything. He went over to look at Deirdre.
Her face was pale, and there was a rough bandage on the side of her neck and a large, ugly bruise on her right temple. Perozzo had covered her with a blanket. Her breathing was light and regular. He looked at her face, the dearest in the world to him, and couldn’t believe she was still with him. He trembled a little, and then she opened her eyes, and he brushed a tendril of her dark coppery hair and said, “Dee, you’re all right.”
“Hello, Sam.”
“You’re going to be fine.”
She smiled a small smile. “Yes, Sam.”
The young Chinese next to her was still unconscious. He was battered and bruised, too, and he had a deep wound in his chest that made him grimace when he breathed. This would be young Lee, who had offered to betray Hung for Anna-Marie. In the unconscious mind was everything to be known about Hung’s worldwide organization, he thought.
Durell straightened. The nightmare was gone.
Perozzo said, “Sam? Hammersmith is out there.” He gestured to the dark sea beyond the cove. “Just offshore. I think they’re sending a boat in.”
“Good.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Durell.” Major Won sounded savage. “In a few minutes, the local police will arrive. They will demand to know about the violence aboard this vessel. It could create a worldwide incident in the press and in diplomatic circles. And we’ve lost all we wanted. I suggest we leave in the fishing boat and find somewhere to hide together until matters between us are settled.”
“It’s all over, Major.” Durell stood taller, straighter, since he had spoken to Deirdre. “I know you wanted Madame Hung. Skoll wanted her, too. Maybe Peking and Moscow hoped to grab off all her agents and networks. That hope is dead, now—as dead as Hung herself.”
Won snapped, “It was not my intention to kill her. I wanted her alive, to answer for her crimes against the People’s Republic of China.”
“And to get her network, no doubt. She’s paid for her crimes. There’s nothing more to be gained. In the fishing boat, the Maltese patrols could pick us up in thirty minutes.”
“But nothing is lost yet,” Won insisted. “General McFee is my prisoner now.”
Skoll made a gurgling sound as he lowered his vodka bottle. “Won, you are a fool. Are you so desperate to please your Black House masters that you have become blind? We’ve lost the game. The American destroyer will pick us up. Let us be reasonable and hope to persuade the Americans to release us, eh?”
“And the papers? The Pilgrim Project?” Won demanded. Skoll belched. “I think that General McFee has outsmarted us all. I do not think the papers exist. If for no other reason than to save our own skins and avoid the awkwardness of answering local police questions, we must cooperate now.”
“You’re making sense, Skoll,” Durell said.
“I am a realist.” The Russian shrugged and pointed the vodka bottle at the Chinese. “Boom, boom, Major. Unless you tell your men to put aside their weapons, we are all dead.”
“No one gets Hung’s organization,” Durell said flatly. “Without her, it will crumble and decay. It won’t be a problem for any of us anymore.” He looked coldly at Won. “I’m not forgetting how you stood there in the hold and didn’t make a move to keep Madame Hung from killing me.”
“Ho,” said Skoll. He clucked his tongue. “Oh, yes.” Perozzo interrupted. “Here comes Hammersmith’s launch. They got my radio message, all right.”
Everyone turned to look in the crowded salon, except Durell. He limped across the carpeted, slanted deck and watched Deirdre’s eyelids flicker. Major Won turned angrily. “And the Pilgrim papers? What about them? You said—”
Durell spoke over his shoulder. “The papers don’t exist.”
Chapter 29
It was two days later. Lieutenant Fisher, aboard Hammersmith, had proved surprisingly capable. Under the Q directive from Washington, certain risks had to be taken, even if it involved puzzling the Maltese authorities. His launch came into the cove none too soon. Two police boats were heading toward the battered East Wind when, in swift silence, everyone was removed from the grounded yacht and taken quickly out to sea to rendezvous with Hammersmith. Courtesies were exchanged with the Russians and Chinese, but no time was wasted. The destruction of the yacht and the dead men aboard made mysterious headlines in the world press for forty-eight hours. It was assumed that some sort of hijacking attempt had been made by terrorists, but no tangible proof was forthcoming. The press then speculated that the violence had been due to rival criminal syndicates, and the senior Lee’s Hong Kong record as an international smuggler helped weigh the speculation in that direction. No names except that of the senior Lee reached the public eye.
Rome was cool and rainy, a welcome relief after Libya’s heat and the sultry air of Malta at this season. A large suite was arranged at the Vittoria, across from the Borg-hese Gardens, and a discreet doctor was summoned by the Embassy. The man asked no questions, but efficiently attended the cuts, bruises and bullet wounds. Durell’s injured thigh was pronounced as a minor, if painful, inconvenience. He lay quietly in bed, listening to the quiet drip of rain on the balcony beyond the french windows of his bedroom. All the urgent, coded messages to Washington had been taken care of. The Q directive was terminated. Durell had dictated his reports and Perozzo had encoded them, and there was nothing more, it seemed, for him to do.
Except to finish it to his own satisfaction.
He was aware of a latent anger and frustration, a sense of having been used for purposes beyond his comprehension. But he slept well and was not pursued now by nightmares about Madame Hung. When he awoke, Deirdre was setting a luncheon tray on a table beside the bed. She wore a light woolen skirt and a high-collared blouse that hid her injury; her dark reddish hair was newly coiffed. She looked rested but pale; her smile was gentle as she sat on the bed beside him.
“Yo, Sam. Feeling better?”
“Much.”
“You got yourself banged up quite a bit.”
>
“I’m fine,” he said. “And you?”
“I was scared,” she admitted. “That woman—”
“Forget her. She’s dead.”
“I hope so.”
“What was done with Major Won and Skoll?”
“Won wanted to go ashore at Messina, in Sicily. So Fisher agreed. No problems. A bit disgruntled, our Major Won, but what could he do? He’d found himself out of the frying pan and into the fire. If he stayed on the yacht, he risked being in Maltese custody for months, accused of being one of the ‘gangsters’ who fought it out on the yacht. On the other hand, he put himself in American custody and Fisher treated him just right. He’ll probably get back
to Peking and claim a big success in destroying Hung’s organization.”
“But he hasn’t got McFee or the Pilgrim papers.”
“No.”
“There weren’t any Pilgrim papers, were there, Dee?”
“Not really.”
“That McFee,” he said. “I should have let Hung keep him.”
Deirdre smiled. “Sore about something, Sam?”
“Just irritated. I don’t like being used.”
“It had to be that way,” she said.
“Did you know about it?”
“No more than you, darling. Eat your lunch.”
“What about Colonel Skoll?”
She laughed. “He’s here, in Rome. That man has a—a brashness—that will see him through anything.”
“He was a big help. He saved my life. What about Anna-Marie and McFee?”
“Acting like father and daughter.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s so,” Deirdre insisted. “And young Lee will be all right. Hung hurt him badly, and he’s in a local hospital, and Anna-Marie has been spending most of her time at his bedside.” She smiled again. “True love, Sam.”
He sat up and kissed her. His leg wound made him wince. He ached all over. The pasta on the luncheon tray smelled good, but he wasn’t hungry. A bottle of bourbon was on the table, and he poured a short drink and felt better afterward. Rain continued to drip down the double doors to the balcony. The sound of Rome’s frenzied traffic came into the hotel room. He suddenly yearned for Deirdre’s serene house on Chesapeake Bay and wished he were there at this moment, alone with her. But he didn’t speak of it.
“I want to see McFee,” he said.
Deirdre said, “I want you to kiss me again, Sam.”
“Later. Find McFee first. And the girl.”
She sighed. “Just across the hall. Take it easy. Use that cane I got for you, please.”
He nodded and took the stick from her and then swore softly as he realized what it was. It was McFee’s blackthorn walking stick, the walking arsenal created in the basement lab of K Section’s headquarters. But it had been found days ago in Rome’s Da Vinci Airport, shattered and broken. He held it in his hand and saw no breaks in the heavy cane.
“Where did this come from?”
“McFee said to lend it to you.”
“But you know it was found in the airport when McFee was first assumed to be missing.”
“It was a duplicate. Left behind to bring you on.”
“The little bastard,” Durell said.
“He loves you, too, Sam. Like a son.”
He muttered angrily and stood up, leaning on the stick. The room swayed for a moment. Deirdre did not offer to help him as he limped across the corridor to McFee’s room.
General Dickinson McFee wore a dark gray dressing robe with thin white piping, and he looked as calm and collected as if he were at his desk in Washington. His gray hair was neatly groomed, his gray eyes were objective as Durell closed the door behind him. Anna-Marie sat on a Louis Quinze settee, upholstered in needlepoint. She had found time to outfit herself in a Pucci dress of blue silk with blue leather accessories to match. When she turned her small, dark head, the gray light from the window splintered on her enormous, blue-tinted sunglasses. Her nose was small and delicate, and her determined little mouth was firm and full.
“Good afternoon, Samuel,” McFee said quietly. “I trust you are rested?”
“Better, thank you. I see you’ve come back to your right mind, sir. I’m glad.”
“A little antidote for hypno-anesthesias that Mike Abrams fixed up for me in the chemistry lab. In my teeth.
I must say, I didn’t care for the dental work.”
“I hope you’re going to tell me what you thought you were doing in all this, sir.”
“Of course, Samuel. Sit down. Had your lunch?”
“I’ll stand, sir.”
“You are leaning on my cane. Sit down.”
“I’d like an explanation of that, too, sir. The cane, I mean.”
McFee’s gray eyes might or might not have been amused. Durell never could tell. He waggled the blackthorn a bit. “Is it still loaded?”
“Yes, indeed, Samuel. Be careful with it.”
“I ought to resign,” Durell said flatly. “I’ve lost two good men, I had to kill Keefe, and God knows how many others the Russians and Chinese had to bury.”
“But Madame Hung is finished,” McFee said.
“What did she get out of you?”
“Nothing much. Dr. Abrams’ drugs took care of that. I was programmed for complete confusion.” McFee sighed. “Now Hung’s outfit is finished, completely finished.”
“What did she do with the Pilgrim papers?”
“Nothing. She never got them from me.”
Durell looked at the girl. “And you found yourself a daughter, is that it, sir?”
“Anna-Marie met me at the airport here. We arranged everything then. I deliberately put myself in Hung’s hands afterward. It was hardly pleasant. One knows one is insane and cannot do anything about it. Enough memory is wiped out to make it a most distasteful experience.”
“I’ll bet.”
“But we lured Madame Hung into striking at me, and I knew you would be along to resolve my personal predicament. Now there will be no international crisis such as Hung hoped to stir up. No international blackmail of Moscow. Peking or Washington. And Anna-Marie has her young man.” McFee’s mouth twitched. Maybe it was a smile. “Lee will come to the States with us, with Anna-Marie, and tell us as much as he can about Hung’s apparatus. So, in a sense, we’ve come out on top all around.”
Durell crossed the room toward Anna-Marie. “Is that what you really want?” he asked the girl. “To go to the States?”
She hesitated fractionally. “It’s what Lee wants.”
“I don’t think so. You and Lee have ideas of your own as to your future lives, don’t you?”
“Not really. We’ll do as the general says.”
“You can’t bring yourself to call McFee your father, can you?”
She bit her lip. Her glasses reflected his image in tall distortions. “I’ll learn, I suppose.”
He looked at McFee. “Sir, do you trust this girl?”
“Of course. I gave her the Pilgrim Project data, to destroy them all, before I went to Hung.”
“I know that. You transferred them to Anna-Marie at the airport days ago, right? And she says she destroyed the papers? The Sixth Fleet’s conjectural maneuvers at Suez have been burned?”
“Yes, Samuel. That was our agreement, to save Lee.”
Do you believe her, sir?” Durell asked.
The girl on the couch seemed to shrink a little away from him. McFee sat quietly and said, “Samuel, I don’t like your inferences.”
“You’ll like them even less now.” Without warning, Durell reached down and snatched off the girl’s big blue glasses. She gasped and tried to grab them back, but he took a step away from her, leaning on the heavy blackthorn cane, and smiled down at her angry face and newly-revealed furious black eyes.
“Give them back to me,” she whispered tightly. “I need them. My eyes—they were damaged—snow-blindness, and the retinas cannot accommodate too much light—”
&nbs
p; “Stop lying,” he said.
McFee said, “Samuel, you are going too far.”
“Not far enough yet. She says she destroyed the papers. She did, but not until after she made microdot photocopies of them all. She wears these glasses constantly, sir, even at night. Of course, it’s a fashionable cosmetic effect, but
Anna-Marie is a healthy, active girl, devoted to all sorts of sports, and she hardly strikes me as one who’d go so far with such a fad.”
“Please.” The girl reached for the glasses, blinking. “I need them.”
“I’m sure you do,” Durell said. He turned the glasses over in his hands carefully. They were highly ornamented, with tiny rhinestones along the bridge and the bows. He touched the decoration gingerly and said to her, “Which ones are the micro-dots?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“The micro-dot photographs of the Pilgrim Project papers. You destroyed the papers, but I’m betting you used a camera and transferred the data to these glasses.” McFee sat very still. His voice was icy. “Samuel, you can’t possibly have any proof.”
“Let’s call it an educated guess, sir. I know the girl’s attitude toward you. She blasted you back in Libya, for deserting her, as she put it. Am I right, Anna-Marie?”
McFee said dangerously, “Samuel, I trust you know what you are doing. I will not tolerate—”
“Yes, sir, I know what I’m doing. Anna-Marie may be your daughter, true enough, but only technically, so to speak. She grew up as an opportunist, living on the grudging, miserable bounty of her grandmother, the old fascist Contessa Bertollini. Anna-Marie protested too much to me about her happy life. I didn’t believe any of it. Now and then she slipped, talking about the old Contessa, who never failed to remind her that she’d been bom out of wedlock. She learned quickly to get what she wanted by sneaking around the back way, so to speak.” Durell suddenly turned to the girl. “Has the Bertollini money run out? Did you squander it all, after the old lady died and left you to run things? You kept the house in Libya and the one in Malta, and you have an apartment here in Rome, don’t you? You and young Lee cooked up the whole thing, right? Lee is an ambitious young man, too. How could he have enjoyed working for Madame Hung under duress? He saw the rewards, wanted more of them for himself. He was going to strike out on his own, wasn’t he? You and Lee, with the Pilgrim Project data, were going to sell out to the highest bidder, after you lured all of us into getting rid of Madame Hung for you. Am I right?”
Assignment Maltese Maiden Page 18