Jules took the man expertly, holding his gun at his throat, waking him up with a quick, painful prod. The man yelped softly, tried to reach for his gun, and froze as he realized he was about to get his head blown off. He made a gurgling sound of fear.
They surrounded the squirming man. “How many other guards are there?” Durell asked.
“Two only, sir, please—”
“You lie.”
“Four, then. No more than four. I swear by Allah—”
“And Nuri Qam?”
“The master is in the house.”
“When did he arrive?”
“Yesterday.”
“And his guest?”
“The younger man? Yesterday, too.”
“Both are still here?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”
“Any other visitors?”
“No, none. But they are waiting—”
“For what?”
“I do not know, sir. It is not my business. I am only one of the guardians of the property, sir. Mr. Qam likes privacy here. We have good employment on R’as Khasab.
All through the year, we are here, we take good care of the property. Mr. Qam is very generous for an Afghani—”
“What are they waiting for?”
“I do not know.”
Jules jabbed his throat with the gun. “Don’t lie again. When do the next visitors arrive?”
“I am only a servant, sir, but I think—they have not unpacked their luggage, and the guest, Mr. Andrews, he always listens to Mr. Qam’s radio. A helicopter, I think. Yes, that’s it. They wait for a helicopter.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, most certainly tonight.”
“Fine,” Durell said.
Jules reversed his gun and slammed it at the man’s head. The guard’s eyes rolled up and he slumped away. Anya tore a strip of cloth from her shirttail and made a gag, while Howard swiftly bound the man with some line he carried. They went on, following a path across a small rocky rise, and came in sight of Nuri Qam’s villa.
It was built in the Eastern style, with four high walls forming a quadrangle that surrounded a tiled inner court. Watered gardens, oleander shrubs, pistachio trees and palms made the place an oasis of bright blossoms. Bougainvillea spilled over some of the inner balconies. The outer wall was about fifteen feet high, surrounding the enclave except for an area of the seawall, where a white motor yacht was moored to a small stone quai. Lights shone through tall, narrow windows on one side of the inner quadrangle.
Durell halted his companions at the far side of brushy knoll. He studied the high dark walls, the single wooden gate with its Moorish arch on this side, a narrow path that angled down from the landward side to a patch of sand along the water, where a striped canopy was stretched beside a swimming pool built into the rock ledge jutting from the beach.
“There,” he whispered. “Two of them. Near the gate.” “I don’t see them.”
“Guards. Smoking.”
“Right. No way to get at them without being seen.”
“Try it from the pool side. Quietly,” Durell took a silencer from his jacket and screwed it into the muzzle of his rifle. “I’ll cover you from here, and be there with you.”
They were a team of deadly predators now, closing in on the villa. The two guards were unsuspecting. One of them laughed, dragging at his cigarette. It made a brief red glow against the dark shadows at the gate. Jules and Howard were off without a sound. Durell and the girl waited. He counted off twenty seconds, then suddenly saw Jules streaking up from the canopied terrace at the swimming pool.
“Let’s go, Annie.”
The guard with the cigarette saw Jules just before the chunky man hit him. The second guard lifted his gun and Durell squeezed the trigger and his rifle made a flat, muffled sound. The guard crashed his head against the wall just as Howard hit him below the knees. Durell and Anya ran down the short slope to join the others in the dark shelter of the wall. The guards were unconscious, the one Durell had shot bleeding from the thigh. Jules Eaton used his coil of line to truss them up and glowered down at them.
“Keys,” Durell said. “To the gate.”
Howard knelt and searched. “No keys.”
“Listen,” Jules said.
A man called querulously from beyond the high wall. They froze in the dark gateway. The voice called again, then was silent. Durell said, “It’s all right. Give me a lift, Jules.”
The pilot cupped his hands, Durell stepped up into them, and leaped for the top of the wall. He didn’t dare miss. The sound of his fall would arouse sure suspicion within, this time. His fingers clawed for the rough top, slipped, caught. He dangled there, aware of the others watching and holding their breaths. Then he heaved upward, threw his left arm across the wall, felt grateful it wasn’t topped with broken glass, and at last scrambled to the top, where he lay flat, surveying the garden and the lighted windows of the villa.
A rope snaked up to him, tossed by Jules. He made it fast while Howard walked up the wall like a mountain climber. Anya came next. Jules waited until Anya and Howard had dropped to the soft grass and oleanders inside before he followed.
“Mahmoud?”
It was the same voice that had queried softly in the darkness before. Durell had no idea how many other men were inside the villa. Servants, of course. Nuri Qam would never travel without a cook or two, a body servant, perhaps a secretary. They would be of no account. Zhirnov was the one to watch for. He tried to see through the lighted windows of the villa, but he could not identify the flickering shadows inside.
Quietly, they moved around to the seaward side of the villa, where the motor yacht was moored. A wide sweep of grass sloped down to the stone bulkheads. Durell’s boot touched something sticking up from the grass, and for an instant he felt chilled, aware of the chances of an alarm trigger. Then he saw it was a flare, one of several thrust into the turf to form a landing square to guide in a helicopter. He wondered how much time they had. For a moment his nerves played tricks on him and he imagined he heard the deep pulsing of a chopper’s blades coming from the Soviet cruiser. But the velvet night sky was empty. Soon enough, he thought grimly.
All at once he saw the dhow.
It should have been halfway to the mainland by now. Instead, it appeared beyond a small point about half a mile from the villa, on the far side of the island.
He knew what it meant. The sullen dhow-master and his pilot, smarting and vengeful, had been here at the villa, talking to those within.
And at that moment, the roof fell in.
The peaceful quiet suddenly exploded with fire and noise. An automatic gun opened fire from an upper balcony of the villa. Durell threw himself flat, dragging Anya down to the terrace floor with him. Bullets smashed and chipped at the tiles and sent sprays of water from the hexagonal fountain nearby. He heard a strange sound from young Howard, a growling yell from Jules Eaton. He wriggled forward with Anya to the shelter of the fountain. When he turned his head, he saw Howard still upright, throwing one of his grenades. It burst with a tremendous blast up there on the gallery, and Durell got up and ran forward under the shelter of the balcony. Anya was close beside him. There came a stuttering fire from Jules, then more firing came from the left, slapping and crackling along the fine tilework of the wall. A handful of chips stung the side of his face.
“Up the steps, Annie.”
She was right with him, her face pale, holding her handgun and pulling the pin of one of her grenades. She lobbed it forward at the stairs and they threw themselves flat, then raced for the smoking steps and went up. Durell heard Jules’s gun hammering at the upper balconies and then he was at the top, yelling for Jules to hold it. A figure suddenly loomed before him, gun held at the hip. Durell fired, the man skittered backward, went over the balcony rail with a long, surprised wail.
There is a technique to such a raid, a rule that says never to pause, to keep going against any odds, lobbing grenades, firing murderously into any room,
never stopping it. Anya knew the rule, too. They wreaked devastation as they ran along the balcony, throwing the thermite bombs, keeping their guns hammering. Similar sounds came from the opposite end of the balcony, and he knew Jules was doing the same work. Just once, he turned to look down at the seafront terrace. A figure lay there, sprawled on its face, near the man he had shot down from the balcony.
There came a pleading shriek of terror from beyond arches of the gallery. The room there was dark.
“Hold it, Anya.”
He checked the lob of her grenade. Her face was taut.
“Nuri?” he called.
“Ah, Sam, Sam!”
“Come out here.”
“No. No.”
“Where is Zhirnov?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“To the tower.”
“With the dragon?”
“He has the dragon, yes.”
“Come out here,” Durell said again.
“No.”
The stink of explosions drifted in the air. He signalled Anya to stay back, then jumped across the doorway to the other side. An automatic opened up as he crossed over, spraying wild bullets at him. He flattened against the wall, holding his gun high and ready. Scuttling noises came from within. He took one of the thermite bombs and lobbed it inside. There came a flash and bursting sound and flames roared in the room. There was a scream and another burst of gunfire, and then Durell dived inside. In the lurid light of burning chemicals, he saw Nuri Qam dart through an inner doorway. He did not wait for Anya this time. There was shouting, and a man’s voice responded. A figure suddenly darted in the inner doorway and Durell fired a short burst. The man stumbled aside. Durell jumped over him. He was in a long corridor that paralleled the dock area below. Through the row of delicate pillars and arches, he could see the boat at its mooring and the tall spire of a minaret tower at the opposite end of the quadrangle. Someone was running away from him, down the gallery.
“Nuri!”
Nuri Qam did not stop.
Durell fired once at the man’s fleeing heels. Nuri skidded on the tiles, fell forward with a thump, his stout body bouncing. Durell ran cautiously after him. Nuri tried to rise, but he was hampered by the sling in which his shoulder was bound. Flames crackled behind Durell. Nuri Qam’s round face quaked as he looked into the muzzle of Durell's gun.
“It’s over, Nuri.”
“No, no.”
“You’ll never make it. You didn’t have time to alert your other guards, did you? The dhow-master tipped you off, right? You’re waiting for the chopper from the Soviet ship. You and Zhirnov—you’re taking off for Moscow. You threw in with the Russians long ago, I figure. They own you, Nuri.”
“My wife—my favorite wife—she is in Moscow now—”
“A prisoner?”
“On technical charges. They only wanted me to do small things for them, in Kabul. I was afraid. I had to do it. In any case—”
“In any case, your sympathies were with the USSR all along. That’s why you’re in political trouble back home.”
“Yes, but—” Nuri Qam tried to struggle to his feet. Durell pushed him down with the muzzle of his gun, and said, “Peking isn’t taking the bait. Washington is out of it, too. Moscow is beating a dead horse. Nobody cares who has the dragon now.”
“I—I care,” Nuri Qam gasped. “Please—”
Gunfire burst from the other end of the villa, where Jules worked his way from room to room. Now and then he heard the roar of a grenade as Anya did the same, behind him. But everything seemed to have stopped at this place, in this time. Durell looked down at the frightened figure of his former classmate. So many years ago, he thought. So much was different now. He saw Nuri Qam plead with his eyes, and he went grim.
“If you had the dragon, Nuri, why did you call me into it in the first place?”
Nuri Qam gasped. “But I didn’t—I didn’t have the dragon then. Berghetti had hidden it; he took it with him when he escaped from protective custody. He’s dead now, I think. I believed—I thought you were the only man who could get the dragon back for me. That was before Zhirnov contacted me. Before I caught up with Berghetti and got the dragon for myself and went to Meshed. It was too late to ask Washington to call you back. It would have looked odd. Please, Sam, for old time’s sake—we were friends once?”
“You tried to kill me. You killed Homer Fingal.” “Zhirnov’s man, Kokin, did that!”
“All the same. You worked together. You used me.” Qam said, puzzled, “How are you so sure—”
“The Ferrari,” Durell explained. “Zhirnov wrecked it and we found it. The secret compartment behind the luggage space had been opened. Only you could have told Zhirnov how to open it. That’s when I knew you and Zhirnov were together.”
“Yes. Yes, I see. But—”
“You’re going back to Kabul, Nuri.”
“No, they will hang me!” Qam shouted. Ignoring Durell’s gun, he lurched to his feet, hugging his wounded arm. His eyes shone with irrational terror. He had a Luger in his hand, suddenly. As he swung it to fire at Durell, there came a single, careful shot from the gallery. Nuri spun around, clutching at his chest. His eyes popped with astonishment, he made a strangling sound, and his fat legs turned to rubber as he collapsed to the gallery floor. His gun clattered and slid over the edge to the terrace below.
Durell saw Anya run toward him in the blinding glare of fire behind her.
At the same time, he heard the beat and thud of a helicopter’s rotors in the black sky above.
21
“Jules?”
The pilot appeared out of the gloom. Jules Eaton scarcely glanced at Nuri Qam’s dead body.
“Zhirnov is up in the tower,” Durell said.
“Yo.”
“Have you seen Howard?”
“No. How do we get up there?”
“Good question.”
A brilliant shaft of light suddenly poured down from the black sky. The chopper up there was a big one, a new Russian KV-20 model. The sound of its descent grew louder as it lowered to a landing on the seafront terrace. Its searchlights played back and forth on the burning villa. The thermite bombs were doing their work. Apparently the flames confused the Russian pilot. He checked his descent and the helicopter swung out to sea in a wide circle for another approach. Durell studied the tower. It was hexagonal-sided, all blue and gold tiles, with a bulbous spire on the top and a small iron-railed walk just below the bulb. He saw something move up there. A man, clutching something to his chest. It would be Zhirnov, he thought, with the dragon box. In a sense, it no longer mattered. Peking would not take the bait. There would be no rumbles of war, no blistering diplomatic notes, no preemptive strikes from either side of the Siberian border. But Zhirnov did not know that. And Durell suddenly held Sarah Fingal’s thin, mournful face in his mind, and thought of Homer’s ugly death in the desert.
Jules said, “There’s one door at the base of the tower. There. Probably a spiral stairway up to the gallery at the top. Like shooting ducks in a rain barrel, Cajun. No way to get up there against him.”
The chopper came back from over the calm, oily sea. Its searchlight flickered and probed, found the tower, bathed its blue projectilelike height in a dazzling glow. Now Durell could see the door at the top, a wooden panel that opened onto the gallery that went around the six-sided tower. Nobody was in sight there now. The underbelly of the chopper hovered directly over the tower. Suddenly a small hatch opened and a weighted ladder tumbled downward. It swung wide, swung back, hit the tower with a tangled thump, and was withdrawn a bit while the pilot steadied his aircraft.
“He’s good,” Jules Eaton murmured.
“I must get up there,” Anya said.
“No way,” Jules told her. “By the time he stops covering the inside steps to get out on the balcony, there wouldn’t be a chance for us to get up. He’s going to make it.”
“No,” Anya said bitterly. “He must not.”
Durell said, “Fire a couple of rounds, Anya, so he’ll know we’re covering his exit up there.”
She did as she was told. They could see the bullets smashing into the small paneled door high above. The door started to open inward and Zhirnov appeared, holding the dragon box. Another shot drove Zhirnov inside again.
“Keep it up,” Durell ordered.
He turned and ran for the base of the tower. One of the chopper’s spotlights caught him, but there was no fire from the aircraft. In a matter of seconds, he was at the lower door to the tower. The ladder from the chopper swung high above, at the level of the upper gallery fifty feet in the air. Anya fired again, and then Jules Eaton’s heavier rifle took over. Durell opened the lower door. Dim light came down the interior of the hexagonal tower from the chopper’s spotlights. Something stirred up there. A shot bellowed savagely in the narrow interior. The bullet spattered against the stone wall. Durell caught the iron rail of the inner steps and ran upward, gun raised, his back scraping against the rough stone.
“Zhirnov!”
A second shot crashed, echoed deafeningly.
“Give it up, Zhirnov! You can’t get out!”
He slid up two more steps, Jules Eaton had been right. He was a duck in a rain barrel. Over the thudding of his pulse in his ears, he heard the rythmic beat of the chopper’s blades. A loudspeaker called something in Russian. The words were like those of a giant descending from the sky. Durell heard the slap of the craft’s ladder against the outer wall. Zhirnov had left the upper door open a crack, and the floodlight outside bathed his face momentarily. Durell fired and instantly ran up half a dozen more steps. Zhirnov’s gun stuttered, seeking him out. Then the man threw open the outer door and tried to lunge out and grab the swinging ladder lowered from above.
There came the sound of one carefully aimed shot.
It was Anya’s gun.
Assignment - Afghan Dragon Page 17
