The science exhibits turned his mind grimly to Dr. Hubertus Steigmann's specialty—the laser beams. He knew little more than the average reader of popular scientific journals, but it was enough to cause a deep dread in the pit of his stomach at the loss of Steigmann's information to the West.
Laser was an acronym to describe what was termed "light amplification by stimulated emission of radiation." The term rhymed with *'blazer." And indeed it blazed a trail into new wonders for the world, if properly employed. The device could level beams at a medical patient's head to destroy tumors behind the eye, or bounce light off the dark side of the moon in two and a half seconds, or destroy cancers in laboratory animals, or burn a hole through the hardest diamond. The machine was both a potential miracle tool and an annihilator that might one day destroy ICBM missiles in flight or, if fired from earth-orbiting satellites, wipe out whole cities. It was controlled light, using synthetic ruby lenses to tame its electrons and create a concentrated beam that could destroy anything in its path, instantaneously. It was compact and convenient; but as far as Durell knew, the power needed to operate the device was still too great to be practicable. But he did not know what Steigmann had achieved, and it could mean one more item of terror added to the precarious balance of peace in the world.
In the hands of an amoral, power-hungry madman, the machine could tip the scales toward ultimate destruction.
"Durell?"
His reflections, as he paused in the museum doorway, were abruptly cut off by the quiet voice behind him.
He turned with his hand on the gun in his pocket and saw Major Simon Asche smiling at him.
There was iron in the man's thick black hair, and deep furrows in his craggy face, as if time had acted like erosive streams in his desert-hardened features. His black eyes snapped with amused intelligence and tough purpose; his chunky wrestler's physique looked too big for the raincoat that was stretched tight across his thick shoulders. He held out a square hand and Durell took it carefully. Simon Asche had a firm, hard grip. There was a question in the man's glance, a search, and a brief, hard challenge. Then he smiled again.
"Henry Gordon will be along soon," he said. He had a crisp British accent. "He was delayed by an accident. A truck turned over and blocked traffic. He wasn't hurt. It seemed like a legitimate accident. I thought I'd come on ahead, since we had to meet, sooner or later."
'*You didn't arrange for his delay?" Durell asked.
"No. You'll have to take my word for it, though. I assume we're going to work together, unless you feel we're too far apart."
"That remains to be seen. Gordon didn't tell you of this meet."
"We tapped his phone. We heard you make the appointment. Don't be surprised, Durell. We've been set up here for some time, and we can be reasonably efficient." Asche looked at him with suddenly anxious black eyes. "I heard of the little set-to in Lisl Steigmann's apartment. Is Carole all right?"
"Wounded. It's superficial."
"I appreciate the help you gave her. She should be along any moment. I sent word to your hotel that she should join us here." Asche paused. "A council of war, so to speak."
"Not smart," Durell said sharply. "She's a prime target. She was safe in my room. Why didn't you—"
"I need her here," Asche said.
"At the risk of her life?"
Asche sighed. "We all risk our lives, don't we? Every moment of every day."
"I thought you and Carole—"
"Yes," Asche said. "But you and I know that our personal affairs count for little in our jobs. It isn't easy. I know all about you, Durell—just as I'm sure you know all about me. I think we can be friends and work together." The chunky man paused. "Besides, Carole said she'd learned something she hadn't been ready to tell you. I asked her to come along with it and meet us here."
Alarm had crystallized in Durell, clanging with the warning clamor of fire bells. "What sort of car does she use?"
"A black Porsche—"
"Let's look for it."
He turned and walked with a long stride across the rainy concrete of the parking lots by the massive museum. Asche thrust his fists in his raincoat pockets, hunched his shoulders, and followed. Durell's first impression of the man had been favorable—Asche was intelligent, tough, resourceful. His dossier proved all this. But he preferred to make his own judgment, and at the moment he had a premonition of complete disaster. ...
"There," Asche said. "There she is."
He pointed to a small black Porsche parked in an ofiBcial slot in a little cul-de-sac formed by the high fagade of the museum. The major's voice had changed, however, catching some of Durell's tight apprehension. A troop of children splashed through puddles in a long line ahead, shepherded by a stout stern-faced woman. Their voices rang out high and clear and innocent against the sullen hiss of the rain. Pigeons waddled for shelter from the downpour, their red -eyes unperturbed by the shrill sounds.
"Hold it," Durell said.
His voice abruptly halted the other man. "What is it? What's the matter?"
"I don't know."
"She's sitting in the car—"
"Stay here, Simon."
He scanned the windows of the high museum wall, his eyes searching the line of the roof, the rainy parking lot and the glistening rows of cars in the distance behind them. The back of his neck tingled. Simon Asche started forward again, only to be checked by a strong thrust of Durell's arm.
"I'll go first."
"But Carole—"
"I'm sorry," Durell said.
He knew that Asche was only too aware of the risks they took in their business. Asche was a professional, like himself. But Carole Bainbury did not know all the dirty tricks of the trade.
He had left her only a few minutes ago in the safety of his hotel room. She had been warned not to leave. But she had chosen the risk of following Asche's orders.
She sat quietly, her hands still on the wheel of the little Porsche, her brown eyes staring at the blank building wall beyond the front of the car. But she had been butchered as neatly and efficiently as a lamb in a slaughterhouse.
Her throat was cut from ear to ear.
Chapter Nine
SIMON ASCHE pushed toward the car, but Durell checked him. "Stand back. Major. You don't want to see her now."
The man's voice trembled. "Carole?"
"She's dead. It's a mess."
''Carole?"
His voice was strained, incredulous. Durell slammed the car door shut and pushed him back. It was like trying to move a concrete post. Simon's eyes looked blind. His harsh mouth opened and closed, his broad chest heaved convulsively.
"We—we planned to marry—when this was finished."
"Don't look at her," Durell repeated.
Simon turned his head away and stared across the rainswept parking lot. People were running for the cars, moving like puppets jerked about on strings. The pigeons still waddled about, imconcemed by the puddles of water. The sound of children's voices was high and innocent in the distance. Simon began to tremble. Durell flexed his fist and Simon caught the gesture and shook his head sharply,
"No. I'll be all right."
"Are you sure?"
Simon nodded. "She was innocent—she worked in this just for me, you know? We were thinking of marriage—"
"Cut it out," Durell said harshly.
"The Dancers did it—those fanatic devils—"
"You'll have to tell me all about it, Simon."
"Yes. Yes, I will Will you help me?"
"I intend to. All I can."
A car swept in a wide circle around the museum lot, spraying water in thick sheets from the puddles, then rocked to a halt beside them. It was Henry Gordon. His face was pale and angry, and he dashed the back of his hand against his heavy moustache. Durell let Gordon look in the Porsche at Carole Bainbury's piteous body. Gordon made a sound in his throat and turned in anger to Simon.
"Why didn't you order her to cooperate with us?"
"Shut up,
" Durell said. "It's bad enough for him."
"But she held out on you, you know, in your hotel. She was saving some items for Simon."
Simon Asche said flatly: "My fault. An error of judgment. I wasn't sure you would work with us. If only I'd told her—"
Durell said to Gordon: "We haven't much time here. What did Carole have?"
Gordon drew a deep breath. "Two things. Quite useful, too. She hid the stuff in your bed, while you attended to her wound. Not your fault, Cajun. You were distracted for the moment. She told Lisl about it after you left, and she decided to follow you. Lisl gave the stuff to me after Carole insisted on leaving your room."
"Let's have it," Durell said.
Gordon dug in his coat pockets and produced a postcard and what looked like an admission ticket and handed them to Durell, keeping a careful eye on the stunned Simoa Asche. Simon made no objection.
"Watch him," Durell said to Gordon.
Simon said harshly: "I'm all right."
"You only think so."
He considered the two items Gordon handed him. There seemed no connection between them. The postcard was a typical museum souvenir purchase from Munich's Alte Pinakothek, the art museum. It was a reproduction of an eighth-century Byzantine mosaic, depicting a cassocked monk with round head uplifted, one foot raised, and arms lifted in a high plea for benediction. The posture was peculiar. The monk seemed to be dancing, transfixed by an inner sense of beatitude that was unusual for the subject.
The second item, the ticket, was a small pasteboard granting one admission to the Oktoberfest —that famous fair that was a lusty Bavarian kaleidoscope of rump-slapping folk dances, thumping brass bands, and enormous beer halls.
Durell pocketed the postcard and the ticket and kept his face blank. "Gordon, did you get a good look at the truck that blocked traffic and kept you from getting here?"
The CIA man pushed rain from his moustache with a white knuckle. "It was from one of the entertainment troupes putting on a show at the Oktoberfest''
"Good enough," Durell said.
"It ties in?"
"Why not? Did you see any name on the truck?"
"It was a local concern. But there was theatrical gear and a lot of people crammed aboard."
"Check. Now what about Lisl?"
"Behind your locked and bolted door. I think I scared her enough to keep her safe for you there, Sam."
The windows of the great museum glowed with light against the gathering dusk. The rain was now a steady drizzle that seemed to have settled in for the rest of the evening. Durell drew a deep breath. He did not allow himself to think too much about Carole's death, and the way it had been accomplished, but he felt a burden of responsibility for it which was almost as great as Simon's. If the girl had obeyed him, she might still be alive. But in his business there was no profit in crying over the proverbial spilt milk. He could see that Simon knew this, too, but he could only guess at the inner agony the other man suffered. The lines in Simon's face had deepened measurably in the last moments, and he looked exhausted, as if he had spent the last of his strength in a desperate sprint that failed.
He wished he could say something to ease Simon's burden; but when he spoke, it was with a terse efficiency.
Something had to be done about the dead girl and the bloody car. Inspector Bellau had to be notified, and if possible, the event was to be kept out of the press. When he suggested this, Simon made a negative gesture; Durell rode over his hoarse protest.
"We have to let Bellau handle it. I don't trust him any more than you, but he'll cooperate on this. It's to his own advantage to keep publicity out of this. And I'll want a little time." Durell looked at his watch. "See if you can hold him off for twenty minutes."
Gordon said: "What's on your mind, Sam?"
"Something I want to do alone."
"I'm going with you," Simon announced. "If you have an idea where these people can be found—"
"Later. You won't be left out of the kill, Simon."
"Not for a moment. Not now, not later," the man said harshly. "I want my hands on the man who did this to Carole."
"Then obey orders, and we'll make it. Go off half-cocked, and the same thing may happen to you." Durell's voice was low and flat. "We're not dealing with amateurs. Neither are they professionals as we understand it. I think we're up against a crew of fanatics who place absolutely no value on human life, neither ours nor theirs. Understand?"
"But I—"
"You keep Lisl Steigmann safe. That's of first importance. We'll meet later at my hotel—if I'm lucky."
He told them to wait until after ten o'clock that night, once they were finished with Bellau. He would see them then.
But Durell had no wish or expectation that this would happen. He hoped to buy a ticket on the ghost railway and begin his ride to its unknown terminal.
Chapter Ten
THE RAIN did not dampen the Bavarian gaiety at the Oktoberfest grounds. There was noise and light, the thump of bands, the glitter of advertising from competing beer halls, the blare of sound from exhibition booths, and the gaudy whirl of wild neon to make the fair resplendent. Durell wasn't sure just what he was looking for, but he knew he would recognize it when it was found.
He let himself be pushed this way and that by the red-faced, stout, and beery throngs. There was an earthy quality to the Oktoberfest, a bawdy joy as if the fair were a remnant of ancient pagan rites celebrated at this season of the year. He let himself drift about with the tides of surging people.
No one followed him. He did not try to hide himself, and even hoped he might spot a persistent shadow among the laughing faces that surrounded him. But he found nothing. He wished he could spot something tangible; it was always better to know the face and presence of your foe. To move into unknown shadows always wracked nerves to a point where a premature response might be triggered. It was a ticklish and uncertain coup he had to achieve, and he might be killed without a chance to manipulate his stratagem toward the goal he sought. He wanted them to take him alive and transport him along the route they had taken for Dr. Hubertus Steigmann. But they might have decided to eliminate Sam Durell, K Section agent. For them it would be the simplest and safest course. So he had to make them think he had a high enough value to them to insure his life.
It would not be easy to effect.
Even if he succeeded that far, he could face torture and bone-twisting, spiteful vengeance. He just did not know. He pushed these dour thoughts from his mind and walked on through the gay and uninhibited crowds.
He found what he wanted, soon enough.
In a way, except for the difficulty of learning their itame, they operated with a brazen frankness that reflected either utter complacency or recklessness.
There was a pavilion which advertised, in bold neon meant to imitate Arabic script, The Cairo Dancers.
He gave it no more than a casual glance when he walked by the first time. It was a flamboyant affair of gilded domes and minarets, lit by colored floodlights that played on the flimsy plastered facade. The wail of flutes and the thud of tambours came dimly through the crowd noises around the triple Moorish arches of the entrance. The Arabic neon script fluttered brazenly above the crowd of Munichers and tourists who hoped to see fabled belly dancers and seductive houri in gauze skirts. Durell walked into an adjacent beer hall, where Bavarian brass clashed out a folk dance to the accompanying thud of ribald feet and slapping hands, then he turned and sauntered around a corner toward the back entrance of the Dancer pavilion.
He had no illusions about his safety, after the way Carole had died. Her death was brutal, and although at the time he allowed little of his shock to touch him, the image of her slaughtered body crumpled in the Porsche came back to haunt him for a moment. He shivered, paused, and went on.
Somehow, he had to persuade someone in the pavilion that he was valuable enough to be sold a ticket to somewhere. ...
"Effendi? You wish to see performance? Main door just around corner t
o your left, effendi. A thousand thanks . . ."
The doorman at the back entrance was all bows and suave smiles. He understood stage-door johnnies, and that made it a Uttle easier. Durell plucked a name he remembered off the front billboard advertising.
'T have a date with Mademoiselle Zuzu," he said, and his smile had just the right touch of self-conscious embarrassment and hope for lustful adventure that the doorman might expect from a tourist jingling coins in his pocket.
"Oh, yes, effendi. Zuzu very popular gel. Always nice to gentlemen admirers, when she feels in good mood. But fine artist, very temperamental—"
"I understand." A wad of folded currency changed hands and the fat Arab bowed and opened the door. Durell had the feeling he was being welcomed into a spider's web. "She dances now, effendi. Five, ten minutes, no more. You wait at end of hall, yes?"
"Of course. Thanks, old chap."
"A pleasure, effendi."
He went inside and the door closed behind him. The wail of Arab flutes and the offbeat clamor of skin drums and jingling bells came faintly through a confused dimness before him. There was a wide hallway onto which dressing rooms opened, cluttered with theatrical baggage, stage flats and props. From beyond the dressing-room doors came an occasional hum of girls' voices in a multilingual babble. A blonde girl who looked Scandinavian ran past him in black briefs and bra, bouncing and jiggling in her haste; he turned and asked, "Mademoiselle Zuzu?"
She stopped and turned her head toward him. She gave him a swift, piercing glance before she shook her head and slid behind one of the dressing-room doors. He moved on, reluctantly.
At the end of the corridor there was a wide stage area that paralleled the bellying curtain, beyond which the performance proceeded to the appreciative audience of fat Munich men and gaping tourists. There came a burst of sound, like a simultaneous exhalation from a hundred male throats, and the flutes shrilled to a new crescendo. The curtain waved suggestively and then the corridor was suddenly flooded with perspiring, half-naked dancing girls in glittery, spangled costumes who gushed by him in a hurried frenzy for the next act.
Assignment The Cairo Dancers Page 5
