Assignment- Tiger Devil

by Will B Aarons

  "They put up a spirited fight, but their position was tactically indefensible. We came upon their rear." Su's eyes slid to the ground a few feet away. "Your friend was not so lucky," he said.

  Durell shook the fuzz from his brain, raised himself on tentative elbows, noted that he seemed to have escaped serious injury.

  The still form of Rick Kirby, lying beneath Su's gaze, told him why. The pilot's body had soaked up the grenade's shrapnel—only the concussion had found Durell. He crawled over, turned Rick's face out of the dust. The man was dead.

  "I believe I owe you an apology," Su said in a harsh manner.

  "Forget it. Did you find the woman?" He rubbed his eyes and wished for order in his groggy mind.

  "She has been transported back to the dam. I sent a runner by the lakeshore to bring a boat."

  Durell stood up, took a deep breath, looked around, abruptly tensed. "Where's the boy?" he asked.

  "What boy?"

  "Peta Gibaudan." He made a rough sound. "Never mind. Did you bag Leon Perez?"

  "There were few prisoners. The Cubans were fanatics."

  "His face is scarred. You'd remember him."

  "No one like that," Su said.

  Durell twisted toward the leaden shine of the island-studded lake. The sun was high and blazing. No sounds of life came from the forest. He looked down the long clearing, and urgency sharpened his voice. "Has your boat returned?"

  "Yes, with kerosene to bum the bodies." Su's face showed puzzlement.

  Durell glanced at his watch, and alarm grabbed at his throat—it was fifteen minutes until the time for the ceremony, when the heart and core of Guyanese officialdom would be atop the doomed structure. It was too late to get them to safety, and Leon was still at large.

  Durell's nerves were taut, humming wires as he rummaged through the pockets of the dead pilot and brought out the keys to the Cessna.

  "Something troubles you," Colonel Su said, "but surely there is no longer cause for alarm."

  "There's every cause, colonel. Is your pilot here with you?"

  "Yes. I brought every available man, but—^"

  "Let's get him," Durell said.

  "Take her lower," Durell said and peered intently from the window of Rick's floatplane. He had saved precious mmutes by going to the Cessna, moored some distance down the lake, instead of the Chinese akcraft by the dam. Still, it might not have been enough, he thought. This was his second sweep around the lake beside the obedient Chinese pilot, and the minutes ticked perilously away as he surveyed the watery chaos. The lake had invaded countless forested gullies, cut off hundreds of islets, uprooted rafts of liane-tangled trees. The burned section of forest was a ragged swatch of slate gray halfway up a low hill at the far end of the lake.

  The small plane bucked through currents of heated air that spiraled up from the water as they skimmed islands and channels at treetop level.

  Durell held a fully loaded AK assault rifle betwen his knees.

  He had no way of knowing where Peta was, but his mind was on Leon. He remembered the Cuban's boast that he would destroy the dam in spite of security measures that prevented planting explosives on it.

  The most obvious approach was by water.

  He almost overlooked the barge. Fresh-cut brush covered it with mottled green from stem to stem, so that it merged with the waterscape—except that, unlike islands and drifting wood, it left a broad wake. The barge was big, perhaps fifty feet long, built in the forest-shielded secrecy of a backwater creek for only one purpose, Durell judged—and its hold, beneath the heaped rubbish that camouflaged it, would be packed with high explosives.

  A steep bank, a sharp turn, and the Cessna roared over the barge low enough for Durell to snatch a glimpse of Leon's terrible face, the tiller by which he controlled a pair of large outboard motors, the abrupt lift of his machine pistol toward the Cessna—

  And Peta in the bow.

  Peta's Browning kicked, and the Cuban ducked before he could fire at the plane.

  The two were at a standoff where one errant bullet would blow them both to bits.

  Durell estimated the barge to be within three minutes of the dam, glanced that way, saw a hundred or more persons near a bunting-hung speaker's stand, their faces toward his plane as it dipped and ckcled.

  His eyes slid back to the barge, and he saw that Leon would have to break away from the channels near the shore and make his final approach across open water. He considered detonating the explosives with gunfire. It would mean sacrificing Peta, maybe himself—concussion or debris might knock the airplane out of the sky. He could try to pick off Leon, but if a slug went astray, he thought grimly, the result would be the same.

  In the end, he reminded himself, only the lives atop the dam mattered.

  The wind screamed, and the engine whined as the plane came around, and Durell's desperation mounted as he became aware that this must be the last pass—the barge had turned out of the islands into the open lake.

  Urgency thickened in his throat as he told the pilot to land.

  The barge was no more than a minute from the dam when the Cessna's pontoons bumped against wavelets a few hundred yards away.

  The machine pistol flamed in Leon's grip, and a grouping of watery feathers sprouted to starboard.

  The Chinese pilot's thin, taut face leaned questioningly toward Durell.

  "Ram it," Durell said.

  The engine gunned, and the plane's red nose swung toward the dark, shaggy mass of the barge. Durell fastened his eyes on it, jaws clamped, a trembling hand on the shelf above the instrument panel.

  He had chosen the best way he could think of to destroy the barge and still leave a margin of hope for survival—^but it was not much.

  He saw Leon's Stechkin yank, heard bullets snicker through the plane's skin, winced as the impact of a slug cracked a web in the windshield. His eyes switched to Peta as the distance narrowed swiftly, and he willed the stubborn youth to jump, but Peta hung on, trying for a shot at Leon.

  The pilot's mouth hung open, and his breathing quickened, and his eyes jigged. He threw himself out the door.

  Durell grabbed the controls, knowing only that the plane must not miss its target.

  The bright air shook to the engine's roar, the pontoons' rumble, the spiteful thump of bullets. Blue and yellow flame spewed from the engine cowling; oily fumes curled into the cockpit. Another slug had damaged the controls, and the little Cessna fought Durell's hands now. The bucking wheel told him the flaming aircraft might veer off course if he left it too soon, and the dam would go, the country—a continent.

  Only an instant was left to wonder if he could jump before it was too late.

  Ahead, the coppery arc of Peta's body dived away. Durell saw the open hole of Leon's gaping mouth, his round black eyes, the shuddering Stechkin, then snakes of fire burst into the cockpit, blotting out everything, and Durell leaped free.

  He cracked painfully against the water, arched up, saw through watery eyes as the flaming aircraft slammed into the barge. A monstrous hammer wracked his body, heat gushed over his face, and a volcanic bang joggled sky and earth.

  The barge simply disappeared in a great cloud of fire and steam, and an enormous gray geyser hxirling debris and mud blasted from the lake bottom soared high above the spot.

  Echoes boomed and clattered through the Pakaraima hills.

  Flocks of macaws squawked, swirled up from the trees.

  The dignitaries watched from the dam in awed silence as the dirty mist of the geyser tumbled back into the seething lake.

  The bow of a motor launch already hacked toward Durell and Peta, who treaded water a few yards apart.

  "I am a man now," Peta called defiantly.

  Durell was not moved to argue.

  Chapter Thirty

  Durell paused in the shade of the old breadfruit tree and regarded the sign that swung from rusty eyebolts over the entrance to Calvin Eisler's Georgetown shop.

  A ribbon of memory, dim and unbid
den, dragged behind his eyes, recalling the night before last when he and Ana, so eager to help, had narrowly escaped here with Eisler as their hostage.

  He sighed, looked around. TraflSc and shoppers crowded street and sidewalk. He still had ashes of the forest fire on his rumpled clothing, a long scratch across his cheek, but no one seemed to pay him any mind. The mingle of citrus and molasses scents from Stabroek Market, down the street, was strong in the early afternoon heat. The tradewind soughed in telephone wires, clashed with palm fronds and leaves of the breadfruit overhead.

  The shops in the balconied arcade were busy—except for Guyana Exports.

  Durell's eyes moved closely over faces in the crowd, then he stroUed to the shop door. A hand-lettered cardboard sign gave notice that the establishment was closed for the remainder of the day.

  He slipped toward the alley.

  The police did not know he was back in Georgetown, and he wanted to keep it that way while he tested a theory or two, played out his hunches. Colonel Su's plane had flown him to Ruimveldt Seaplane Base on the south edge of town, and he had taken a taxi here. There had been no thanks or congratulations from dignitaries at the dedication. To them he had been only a small figure far down on the water, picked up hurriedly and, with Peta, hustled into the Chinese Canadair.

  Colonel Su's discreet inquiries revealed that Eisler had flown Ana back to civilization as soon as she had arrived at the dam.

  This time the white van was not parked behind Eisler's shop. Durell picked the padlock and let himself in. Memories of his desperate encounter here two nights ago swirled through his mind again as he worked his way out of the gloomy storeroom and into the shop area. The windows were closed, the air still and charged with an indefinable expectancy. Sweat popped out all over his body. He picked his way among the bubbling aquariums toward the piranha tank with its bloody tray of sliced liver and broomstraws. He became aware of a lingering taint of gunsmoke in the hot room, paused and listened. Beyond the window people walked and chatted. There was a soft, fountain quality to the babble of voices. Further away sunlight flared against chrome and glass, tires screeched. A traffic cop's whistle trilled.

  Durell moved a few cautious steps, stopped once more, eyes dark and narrowed. Extending from behind the big tank was a foot clad in a white shoe.

  Jan Browde's shoe.

  Durell leaned and saw the extended body where it lay in deeper shadows. The hands and legs were tied, a wad of cloth stuck into the mouth. The blue eyes were big and round in the man's florid face. They blinked. The head wagged frantically, and muffled sounds came from behind the gag.

  Durell stooped quickly, yanked the gag from his mouth, then worked on the knots.

  Browde gasped for air. "Thanks, chum. I just knew it was Eisler, come back to finish me." Blood was caked around a hole in Browde's sleeve. He looked down at it and put his hand over it.

  "Where is he?" Durell asked, unreeling rope. 'I don't know." Browde's face was going pale, and he looked faint. Durell saw that he had lost a lot of blood. Browde's voice was thin, as he said: "Eisler said he would throw me to the piranhas when he returned. I thought sure I'd bought it when I heard you."

  Durell glanced into the tank. Most of the fish that had been there before were gone now. That did not surprise him. He turned back to Browde, and said: "Why did you set me up with Otelo Antunes' murder?"

  "I didn't know about that, honest. Someone was using me, too."

  "It was Eisler, of course. He's at the top of the diamond smuggling racket." He ripped the collar button from his shirt and said, "Look." He pressed the button into a piece of liver. Sticky blood held it there like glue. Then he chose a straw, thrust it through the hver, dunked it into the tank. A piranha instantly snapped the straw in two and swallowed liver and button.

  "I see," Browde said. "He actually feeds diamonds to the little monsters."

  "The fish are shipped to another country and killed and the diamonds retrieved," Durell said. "The idea came to me last night when I saw diamonds sticking to Claudius Gibaudan's bloody hand."

  The two men stared at each other.

  Browde broke the silence. "You're a cop, aren't you?"

  "Not exactly—^but that's close enough." Durell drew a Tokarev pistol that was Colonel Su's gift. "Now it's your turn," he said, his voice low and even.

  Browde winced at the pain in his arm, licked sweat from the comers of his mouth. "I guess I have to trust you," he said. "I'm an agent for the Central Selling Organization."

  "South African. I should have known."

  "A flood of illegal diamonds had been traced to Guyana. I was sent to find the leak in the dike. Had to work my way up from the bottom echelon boys. Then you came s> along with that brick of ice—"

  "And we wound up working against each other."

  Browde nodded weakly. "I set up the diamond deal in hopes of tracing the chain of buyers. After the killing of that reporter yesterday, everything dried up—^I couldn't even find the people I'd been dealing with."

  "What brought you here?"

  "I got a tip just an hour ago that Eisler might be worth investigating. I came here, walked right into a trap."

  "Eisler wanted to get rid of you as well as me," Durell said.

  "He almost did," Browde said. He tried to shake the haze from his eyes, sucked a long breath between clinched teeth.

  "I'll get an ambulance," Durell said, striding to the telephone. He made the call and unlocked the front door.

  "Where are you going?" Browde called, his voice weak.

  "I think I know where Eisler will be," he said.

  The Grumman Gulfstream jet was a beautiful piece of machinery, Durell thought as he approached it in the crushing sunlight. It could fly fast and far—almost four thousand miles nonstop—and was much too expensive for shipment of a few gallons of tropical fish. Its sleek shape quivered behind curtains of rising heat, was mirrored in bright mirages that puddled the burning concrete and asphalt at a far comer of Timehri Airport's taxiways.

  The white van was behind it, and Durell ckcled wide so that he could see that side of it, away from the airport tower, before going closer.

  A thin angularity clambered up a metal ladder toward the airplane's door. That was Calvin Eisler, arms full with a container of tropical fish.

  A jet liner swung out from the terminal building, thundering and screeching, found its runway, hurtled above the jungle that walled the airport all around.

  Ehirell did not know if he had to do this. He wished to believe that local authorities could handle it—but Eisler was an important figure, the sort of man who had a way of landing on his feet, no matter what. He had Inspector Sydney James in his pocket, and there was no way of knowing how many others his money and position had corrupted.

  Durell was almost in the shade of the plane, with the van between him and its fuselage, when Eisler took note of him. The tan of the tall, thin man's aristocratic face glittered with sweat, and he held a large container in his arms. He tried to smile. "I wondered what happened to you," he called down.

  "I ducked the police," Durell said.

  "And now you've come to fly out of our lives for good, I hope." Eisler made no move. The corners of his critical blue eyes were tight.

  "Just to take you back to Georgetown," Durell said.

  "I have my own transportation, thank you." Eisler's long teeth shone in a laugh. "Incidentally, I've dropped charges against you since the police recovered my car." He pronounced "car" like "caw."

  "You killed Otelo Antunes, or had it done," Durell said bluntly. "You won't need your car for a long time."

  "The sun must have got to your head," Eisler said.

  "You were still trying to put me away, Cal. You were afraid I'd stumble onto your smuggling racket—that concerned you much more than exposure as a paid agent and ruination of your career. And I was the perfect suspect for Otelo's murder: the outraged brother-in-law, seeking revenge."

  Eisler's eyes jerked toward the van. Durell
had seen the feet on its other side. He thought he knew who was there.

  Eisler's eyes came back to Durell, angry, squinting, threatening. "You're pushing your luck, Durell. Really."

  "I'm used to that."

  Ragged, broom-sized leaves hung listlessly under the raging heat along the verge of the airport as the two men measured each other. The jungle loomed behind a high chain-link fence, humming angrily. The memory of its muck and stings brought an abrupt shudder to Durell's heavily muscled frame.

  An insipid current of air worried a lock of blond hair that dangled over Eisler's forehead. He still had not moved. Finally, he said: "You will never connect me with Otelo's death."

  "Maybe not, for the record. It's enough for me that I know. You see, I noticed the aquarium fish in the log pits at that sawmill in Bartica—"

  "Rather tenuous, Durell. Our country is noted for tropical fish ia all its streams."

  "But those would not have been there by choice. Characins prefer running water. Those had been penned there, waiting for you to pick them up. Peta confirmed that. It was sloppy thinking to choose your own property to frame me."

  Eisler nodded toward a tank of piranhas that sat in the Grumman's door. "I should feed you to them for such insolent slander," he snarled.

  "They're not interested." Durell's voice was bland. "Look at the little bastards—their guts are so full of diamonds they can hardly move."

  A venomous gray changed Eisler's sky-blue eyes. He spoke calmly enou^, as he said: "That does it. Kill him, James."

  Durell had guessed that James' collusion had been all that made Eisler's control of the diamond pirates possible, and that he had been the man lurking behind the white van. He was not taken off-guard, had plenty of time, and the muzzle of his Tokarev awaited James' stocky form as the police inspector lunged from behind the van with drawn pistol.

  Durell's gun made a flat, cracking sound, and James' beautiful brown eyes went dull and vacuous. He hit the tarmac a dead man, Durell's slug through his silk shirt, his heart.

  Just then he heard Eisler's container splinter against the taxiway. He spun and crouched as Eisler's gun hammered wildly, was aware of the deadly suck of a bullet that whiffed past his ear. The Durell's Tokarev bucked in his fist, and a bruised blue hole opened at the base of Eisler's throat, and his jaw dropped, and the Tokarev crashed again. The second bullet took a shirt button into Eisler's chest. The man's arms flung out, and he fell amid bright spangles of fish that flopped under the brilliant sun.