Assignment Carlotta Cortez

by Edward S. Aarons

  “I don’t want to believe it,” he said. “But I want an explanation.”

  “Tell me where you are. I will come to you, darling.” He still hung back, reluctant to tell her. It was as if some last primitive instinct persisted. He was afraid of her. He faced it now. He shouldn’t have phoned. But he loved her, too. The sound of her voice weakened him, slid over his fears with moist warmth, with her concern.

  “Carlotta, I’ve been thinking about everything—it’s so crazy-dangerous, we can’t possibly succeed. I want to go to the police. If Durell is in on it, maybe he’ll understand and help.”

  “Johnny, you must not do that! Would you kill us all?” “That’s why I’ve got to see you, honey. I’ve got to talk to you about it.”

  “I will come to you. Tell me where.”

  He drew a deep breath. He told her. “Mt. Vernon. Across from the railroad station.”

  It was done.

  “Wait for me,” she said. “I must be careful. It would not do to be followed, do you understand? Wait for me.”

  “Yes, Carlotta.” He felt vulnerable now. “But don’t tell Justino, whatever you do. Come alone.”

  “Of course. I shall do that.”

  Carlotta put down the telephone and turned to meet Justino’s dark, sardonic eyes “Well, you heard.”

  “He is weak. I was right. He will betray us. And you were a fool to talk so much on the telephone. The police could have been listening.”

  “I don’t believe they have gone so far yet,” Carlotta said. “Besides, I really didn’t say anything.” “You will be expected to report that you have heard from him. You will do so.”

  “But how can I, Justino?”

  “You will say that he telephoned in a great state of distress, almost hysteria, and spoke of things you did not understand—that he said he had done a terrible wrong and could not come back, ever. You must imply that he plans to destroy himself in remorse.”

  Carlotta smiled thinly. “That is good. Very good,”

  “Then you want me to go for him?”

  “At once,” she said.

  He laughed his short, barking laugh. “Querida, it is good that we understand each other. But you know my price.

  “It shall be met."

  “With no restraint?”

  “Have I ever?” She smiled.

  “I have other means of expression,” he said. He looked as if he wanted to touch her, to take her here and now. “It will be done?”

  “Yes.”

  She knew what he meant by his “means of expression.” With Justino, in that mirrored bedroom upstairs when Duncan was away, he had forced her to explore depravities that she had only read or heard about in vague ways. He had educated her thoroughly, in pain and cruelty masked by passion. It was one part of his rice for his obedience. One day, she knew, after his indispensable role had been played in the return of the exiles to power, she would have to kill him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Durell was in the back room listening to the tape recorder when Justino left the Cortez house. Barney Kels stood at the window with the field glasses. Kels was short and dark, with bright black eyes and a thick shock of black hair. The field glasses gave only a dim view of the interior of the General’s map room, but it was enough to identify the figures of the two people inside, Carlotta Cortez and Justino.

  “That’s a lot of woman,” Barney sighed.

  The tape was almost at the end. Durell listened to Johnny Duncan’s hesitant voice, echoing all its fears and uncertainties through the electronic mechanism. There was no longer any hope of denying what he knew. Johnny Duncan was a traitor. Yet he was a friend, too. They had shared certain years and times together that bound them together inseparably. Long, easy sessions of good talk and philosophy and speculation on the future, on life and the world, in those days at Yale. There was always one person, at stages in your life, who shared life with you as no one else could, and who would always be a small part of you as long as he lived.

  But the amputation had to be made. It had to be quick and clean. You couldn’t afford the luxury of regret or sentiment. Treason today was the worst crime of all.

  “There he goes,” Barney Kels said. “That’s our Justino.”

  Durell heard the taped voice of Johnny Duncan mechanically state that he would wait near the railroad station at Mt. Vernon. He snapped off the machine decisively.

  “Barney, get going,” he said.

  “Just a tail?”

  “Justino is going out there to kill him. The woman won’t go, as she promised. She’ll send him, and it’s logical. They don’t want the major to live.”

  “The goddam fool,” Barney said, shrugging into his coat. “Do I have to stop it?”

  “We need Duncan alive. Don’t slip, no matter what. Don’t let Justino know he’s being tailed. He’s smarter than you, Barney. He’s had a lot more experience. So you’ll have to be damned good. Put a dummy on him that he can shake, so he’ll feel safe. Then you take it up. Got that?”

  “Right, Sam."

  “Make it good, whatever you do.”

  Durell moved quickly now. His lack of sleep was forgotten, although the morning sunlight seemed dazzlingly right. It took four minutes to walk around the block, cross at the comer, cut down the next block and up the alley and through the gate in the fence to the rear of Number 11. Kenneth Jensen was waiting for him in the kitchen. The stout young man looked excited. He put on his horn-rimmed glasses and yanked them off again. “She spotted one of them!” he blurted.

  “Pleasure?”

  “The kid is all right. She was at the window, and she saw Justino just now. He’s left the Cortez house.”

  “I know.”

  “She says he’s one of the men who was at Piney Knob.” Durell exhaled with long-suppressed tension. “Right.” He picked up one of the telephones on the kitchen table and looked at Jensen again. “Where is Garry Fritsch?” “Upstairs, sleeping. Knocked out. The old guy—”

  “He’s not that old,” Durell said, with inexplicable anger. “Go wake him.”

  Jensen ran upstairs. In two more minutes, Durell had three cars headed for the Mt. Vernon railroad station, with two men in each. He was conscious of the pressure of a hunter’s excitement sliding along his nerves. Johnny Duncan knew enough, and could tell enough, to wind up everything right here and now. With a little luck, the trap could be sprung, their prey captured, the bombs recovered, the hunt ended.

  He hung up and took the steep, narrow back stairs three at a time. He wished he could have left this place and gone with the others to Mt. Vernon. But it wasn’t possible. You had to depend on your men to carry out orders as you gave them, and you had to stand by for anything else under the sun to happen, expecting any eventuality. He walked quickly to the front sitting room and looked through the window at the Cortez house. He would have given anything to know what was happening and what was being said in there right now.

  Pleasure was excited. She came in with Fritsch, and Durell did not miss the fact that the silver-haired man held her firmly by the arm.

  “Oh, Mr. Sam, I saw him, the tall skinny one back on Piney Knob, the one who shot at Pa—”

  Durell grinned at her excitement. “Are you sure, Pleasure?”

  “I wouldn’t make a mistake about this, Mr. Sam. I’m sure, all right.”

  “Good for you, Pleasure.” Another link had dropped into place in the chain that had to be forged. “That’s a big help.”

  Pleasure laughed and then made an annoyed sound and shook herself in an attempt to break Fritsch’s grip on her arm. “Will you tell this man to let go of me! He treats me like I was a criminal, or something.”

  “All right, Garry,” Durell said.

  “She could be lying,” Fritsch said.

  “Could be. We’ll know when we get Duncan.” Pleasure stood very still, staring at Durell with big, wide blue eyes. Her mouth fell open. “You found him? You know where Johnny is?”

  “We think so.”


  “But you’re not goin’ to hurt him—”

  “He’ll be all right, Pleasure. Trust me.”

  “I do, Mr. Sam. I trust you. But I don’t like him!” She suddenly wrenched free of Fritsch’s grip and darted away toward Durell. Durell put his arm around her shoulders. She had been asleep, he gathered from the tumbled condition of her hair. And she wore a dress he hadn’t seen before. It hadn’t come from Sidonie. She said quickly, “You’re sure you won’t hurt Johnny, now?”

  “Is he still so important to you?”

  “Not like it was before. Not like when I thought we were in love and true to each other. But if he’s married and he lied to me—well, I still don’t want to be the cause of him getting hurt.”

  “I think I understand. Where did you get that green dress, Pleasure?”

  Her childlike attention turned immediately to herself. She smiled and self-consciously smoothed the silk that clung to her round young hips. “You like it, Mr. Sam?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t belong to you, Pleasure.”

  “Well, I know, but there was this whole closet full in the bedroom where I went to take a nap, and I just had to try ’em all on. Did I do wrong?”

  “You’d better stick to die clothes I gave you.”

  She looked at him, wide-eyed. “You’re not angry because I got mad at you before, and tore some of ’em up?”

  “No.”

  He started to take his arm from around her, but, she turned quickly and pressed herself to him. Her artlessness, Durell thought briefly, did not reach a point where she omitted her feminine instincts. It occurred to him, with some misgivings and even alarm, that she might be transferring her quick affections from Johnny Duncan to himself.

  “Go on back and try to get some more sleep,” he suggested.

  “Oh, I couldn’t sleep now,” she said. “Not if you’re going to find Johnny.”

  “It may be some time. Please. Go on.”

  She hesitated, glared malignantly at Garry Fritsch, who stood by the window, and then went away.

  Durell let out a long, slow breath.

  Fritsch said, “You’re springing an empty trap, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That house over there—it’s a dry hole. No eggs coming this way. They’d be crazy to try it.”

  “I know that. I don’t really expect them to bring the bombs here,” Durell said.

  “Then what’s all the stakeout for?”

  “They’ve got a storage place in mind. Some place to hold the eggs until they get them out of the country. One of them in that house might lead us to the cache.”

  “Sure. But meanwhile there’s more danger of an accident with every minute goes by while they’ve got the bombs.”

  “We have to take that risk,” Durell said. “But if we pick up Duncan, he may know where to look. It’s our best chance.”

  “So we just wait some more?” Fritsch asked dourly. “We wait. It won’t hurt you,” Durell said.

  Ten minutes went by.

  Durell returned to the telephones in the kitchen, where Jensen waited.

  Somewhere in Mt. Vernon right now, Johnny Duncan waited for death. He thought he was waiting for life and love and reassurance, for the red-haired Carlotta, who had already destroyed him. But Justino would meet him—unless Barney Kels got there first.

  The telephone rang.

  Durell swung around and reached for it as Jensen did, and picked up the instrument first. “Yes?”

  “Barney here.”

  With Kels’ two words, Durell knew the answer. “What happened?”

  “Dry run. He isn’t here.”

  “What scared him?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Did Justino see you?”

  “We don’t think so. He made all the moves as if he did, though. But that could have been routine, just in case. We were always right behind him. He’s looking for a cab right now. Looks ready to chew nails. He’s armed, I’m sure of it. Shall we pick him up?”

  “No,” Durell said. His disappointment was bitter. “He’s probably got a permit. The General is an important exile. He’s got influence, enough to permit him freedom here in asking for political asylum. All his influence is in the wrong circles.” He paused, angry. It had been too close to avoid feeling letdown. “Just keep a tail on Justino.”

  “Check.”

  “Did you ask around about Duncan?”

  “The waitress in this lunchroom spotted him at the coffee counter. Noticed him because he looked so beat. Duncan left by one door, she says, practically as we came in.”

  “Can you close in the neighborhood?”

  “We’re trying. But there’s not much chance.”

  “Does the waitress know why he left so suddenly?” “No. He just scared off, that’s all. Sat here biting his nails, and got up a couple of times as if he couldn’t make up his mind to stay or run, and finally ran. A couple of minutes too soon for us.” Barney Kels paused. “There’s somebody else here, though.”

  “Who?”

  “Your pal from the alley last night. Pablo O’Brien. He looks sore, too.”

  “How did he get there?” Durell asked.

  “We had a regular parade following Justino uptown. Pablo was on the make for Justino, too. You want me to nail him?”

  Durell thought about it. “Yes, I want to talk to him. Bring him in.”

  He hung up.

  Five minutes later the telephone rang once more.

  It was Barney Kels again. His report was laconic.

  “O’Brien got away.”

  Jensen produced sandwiches and coffee for lunch. Durell felt caged in the house. He was acutely conscious of time slipping inexorably by, faster and faster. The bombs could be anywhere in the country by now. Or out of the country. If they were already out, then all hell would break loose. There would be a propaganda field day in the United Nations, with the U.S. accused of supplying nuclear weapons to support the return of tyrants.

  It could be delayed a little, Durell supposed. The General and his staff and coterie of exiles could be held in New York, on some pretext or other. But not indefinitely. Nothing would be done unless Cortez could move his offensive personally. It was something to think about, and he called Washington and spoke on the telephone to Wittington. Wittington had already considered it. Steps were being taken. But it wasn’t the answer. So far, Wittington said drily, no request for travel permits and passports had been made by the Cortezes.

  At one o’clock, Professor Perez left the house, and Barney Kels put a man to shadow the gangling man. An hour later, Carlotta Cortez and the General also went out, took a cab uptown. Durell was tempted to do the shadowing himself, but he left it to Barney’s men. Pleasure did not identify anyone else as having been present at Piney Knob, except Justino. And Justino did not return.

  The professor, the shadow reported, went to a movie.

  Carlotta and the General attended a fashionable cocktail party given by the colony of Cortez exiles in a swanky uptown apartment on the East side. At three o’clock, Justino joined them.

  Durell tried to sleep.

  He chose a room in the back of the second floor, drew the blinds carefully, and closed his eyes. Fritsch came in and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Durell heard the effort of the man’s breathing and spoke quietly.

  “Do you have pills, or anything, for your condition, Garry?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got some. What have you done about it?”

  “Nothing, yet.”

  “You’re going to report me as physically unfit?”

  “I’ll have to, Garry.”

  “I know.” Fritsch was silent for a moment, and Durell heard his breathing again. “I’d like to finish this one up, though. I guess I’ve been kind of rough on your little mountain girl.”

  “She’s not my girl.”

  “I know. I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t want to quit, Durell. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself,
being out of things.”

  Durell said nothing.

  “Let me stay with it, Sam, for another day.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll watch it,” Fritsch said. “You can count on me.”

  “Can I?” Durell turned his head and looked at the man. It was a mistake. He saw himself in Fritsch—the pride, the knowledge of how to do the job, the need to go on, no matter how you felt about it, because this job was never really finished. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “Until tomorrow.”

  Fritsch breathed out slowly. “Thanks a lot.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I can wind this up by tomorrow,” Fritsch said. Durell looked at him again. “You can? How?”

  “Sweat it out of them. Pull ’em all in, the whole damned crowd. We’re sure they arranged to have the eggs swiped. We’re sure they know exactly where they are at this minute. We’ve got to get those tacticals back, Sam, before something goes wrong.”

  Durell thought about it. He knew that Fritsch wouldn’t hesitate to use violence, anything, to make them talk. Which one would crack? Not Carlotta. Not the General. Certainly not Justino. Professor Perez, maybe.

  “It won’t work,” he said.

  “Why not?” Fritsch demanded. He stood up, walked around the bed, came back again. He seemed excited by the prospect. “I can make anybody talk, anybody. This isn’t a time to slap suspects on the wrist, or for pussy-footing. Give them to me, Sam.”

  “Don’t you think, with a plan as well worked out as they’ve got, that they’ve already considered we might try exactly that?” Durell asked.

  Fritsch opened his mouth and shut it.

  Durell sat up. “Touch them, put a finger on them, and the balloon goes up. We’ve got nothing in our hand to match their wild jokers—the eggs, Garry. That’s the kind of people they are. Nice and civilized, full of fine manners—and ready to fight like savages to get back into power. Certainly, they know where the bombs are. They know what those little bombs can do. This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment scheme on their part. They’ll have made provision for possible arrest and questioning.”

  “You think they’d blackmail us with detonating one of the bombs,” Fritsch said.