Assignment The Cairo Dancers

by Edward S. Aarons

  "Didn't you ever try to get away?"

  "Just once. After I—I obeyed orders and drugged you, in Munich. It was not the first time, but something about you— I don't know—I determined it would be the last. ITien I-heard about that poor English girl—Miss Bainbury?—and the disappearance of Lisl Steigmann. Up until then, I did not allow myself to think of the significance of what I had to do for the Dancers. But it was too much. Too much. I am not a saint, or an angel—life has been very hard, and I was very ambitious to succeed, at whatever cost. But after all that, in Munich—well, I had a change in heart. Can you believe it? I thought until then I would do anything to succeed. I thought I was—how do you say it?—tough. When I read Inspector Bellau's name in the newspapers the next day— after I drugged you—I went to him, meaning to tell him everything. But I did not know he was part of the organization. I was stupid, an innocent fool—and I thought I knew the ropes, as you put it. Bellau brought me back. I had no chance. And there will never be another chance. I will never try to get away again."

  "Do they frighten you so much?"

  "All the girls are terrorized. Then they grow used to the life. Most of their *work' is to keep the Dancer guards and the scientists content and happy, do you understand?"

  "And you? You're meant for El-Raschid, personally?"

  She would not look at him. "Yes," she whispered. "I must go now."

  "Just another moment—"

  "They hear and know everything. I cannot help you, if that is what you are going to ask."

  "Is every room bugged?"

  "And monitored by television."

  Durell pursed his lips. "Very efficient. You wouldn't happen to know what's on the agenda for me today, would you?"

  "You will be persuaded—brainwashed—like all the others. You will—change. You will serve and obey. El-Raschid expects to gain much information from you."

  "Today?"

  "Or tomorrow. They are very busy today."

  He thought of Simon and his Bedouins. "Was there no alarm or excitement last night, while I slept?"

  "Nothing."

  Scratch another hope, Durell thought. He let her go, but he did not mean to forget her. All at once, he felt ravenous again, and ate the breakfast she had brought with a hungry appetite, hoping there were no preliminary drugs in the food or coffee.

  The twin Dancer guards appeared twenty minutes later to escort him to Dr. Hubertus Steigmann. Durell did not question El-Raschid's motive in giving him this freedom. The eagle and his toad associate, Bellau, had their own reasons and methods of digesting what they snatched up. He hadn't seen the treacherous Bellau as yet, but there would come a moment of reckoning, somehow, he swore to himself. . . .

  He was crowded into the golden birdcage of an elevator and whisked swiftly up to the top levels of Djebel Kif. Not for an instant did the twins relax their vigilance. Without words, they urged him down an antiseptic corridor and through a doorway into Steigmann's assigned workshop.

  It looked innocent enough. His first glance revealed what seemed like a simple black box attached to a long dark tube that could be pointed like an old-fashioned cannon out of several open ports in the mountainside. But enormously heavy cables were attached to the mechanism, and he supposed the power source was the atomic plant buried deep in the bowels of the eyrie.

  Steigmann was too engrossed in his work to notice his arrival. The bearded laser expert seemed harassed, as if too much pressure had been exerted on him to hurry the job. Durell wondered briefly what he had been told about Lisl.

  He didn't doubt that Lisl's capture was the main factor in Steigmann's submission here.

  "Doctor," he said mildly, "we seem to have been granted the boon of an interview."

  Steigmann looked up, startled, and peered at him through thick magnifying lenses; then he took them off with an impatient jerk of a shaky hand. "You here? I thought they had killed you. Heir Durell."

  "I'm the stubborn, persistent type, I guess. I kept on following you."

  "That was foolish. Go away. Can you not see I am busy?"

  "I think we're meant to talk," said Durell. "And our listeners would be annoyed if we didn't."

  "Listeners?" Steigmann seemed puzzled, then he glanced at the walls. His assistants, a Japanese and a small man who looked Italian, stepped back like robots too thoroughly programmed for obedience to interfere. Steigmann waved impatiently. "Yes, yes, no doubt. But I have my orders, you know. I must complete the prism balance before nightfall."

  Durell asked innocently: "Something gone wrong?"

  "The blundering idiots who worked here knew nothing, nothing I And now there is so little time!"

  "When is it to be triggered?"

  "By nightfall, I told you!" Steigmann seemed shrill in his desperate impatience. "What is it you want to know?"

  "Can you tell me what is to be the first target?"

  "Ach! Look out there."

  He gestured to the portholes cut through the solid stone of the mountain cave. Durell walked carefully by the long laser tube to peer out at the outer world. He patted the tube negligently. How many volts would it take? A million? Ten million? He did not know the size of the atomic generator. But it would be enough. Power had been the prime obstacle in development of this futuristic death ray. Twenty years ago, it would have been scoffed at as a fictional dream. But today spaceships and missiles were only too real, along with i supersonic jets and spying satellites. Nothing was impossible. The imagination of man had gone beyond all horror.

  From the port, the cliff dropped sheer for hundreds of feet to the foot of the mountain. No way out here, he thought ^ grimly. Beyond, his eyes were all but blinded by the glare of the desert sunlight on the tumbled wastes of the Sinai. Nothing moved out there. All the way to the horizon, there was only empty desolation. He judged from the morning sun that the laser gun was directed to the northeast. Toward Israel, then. Which city was the target? Tel Aviv? Jerusalem, the shrine of all Western religions? Haifa, the port city? Whichever it was, the Israelis, given any time at all, would retaliate instantly. Their target would be Cairo, their self-announced enemy. And once war was triggered, all the Middle East would be inflamed, a seething cauldron in which the Second Prophet could fish for support and alliance.

  At this height, he thought he might glimpse a hint of Simon and his Bedouin camp. But Simon was too good a desert campaigner to permit his position to be spotted.

  Of course, El-Raschid knew they were in the neighborhood, and would do something about it. Or, in his arrogance, did he think it was unnecessary?

  Hard to tell.

  He turned, musing, back to Steigmann.

  "So you have given up, Doctor?"

  Steigmann lifted his head from his work. His round eyes were haunted. "No criticism, my friend. We both should have died some time ago. It would have been better. Then we would not have been forced to make any choices."

  "And you've chosen El-Raschid—and this?"

  "I could not help myself."

  "Is it for Lisl that you commit yourself to evil?"

  "I must. My foolishness began this, and it will be the end of it."

  "Have you seen Lisl yet?"

  The man nodded. "I was permitted this, yes."

  "And she's well?"

  "Well enough, for the time."

  "And if you don't perform on schedule, she'll suffer for it. Is that the ultimatum you got?"

  "You know all this. Why do you torture me with it?"

  Durell said: "I was just thinking of all the ugly charges against you in Munich. Maybe you were framed, maybe you weren't, for all I know. The crimes that blacken your name are inhuman, beyond the comprehension of any decent, civilized human being. But the crime you're about to commit goes beyond all of them, whether the charges are true or not. This is far worse, past words or description."

  Steigmann drew an unsteady breath. His face was an etching in torture. "Do not offer me comparisons or any philosophy. I was innocent, but no one believed
me—"

  "Your daughter believes in your innocence now."

  "No."

  "But she does. And what will she feel if she is convince! by your acts here that all the charges against you in thi past were true?"

  Steigmann put down a chrome-steel tool he was usinj His hand trembled. "Am I to let her die, then?"

  "Are your lives worth those of millions?"

  "I cannot think of that! Is it selfish to want to live? Perhaps so. I am not noble or self-sacrificing. I do not wish to speak of such things. Do not talk to me any more, or I shall call the guards." His face was pale with sweat. "Go away. I must finish my work."

  Durell said softly, "Were you innocent of the Munich charges?"

  "Yes, but what does it matter? I am not an innocent man in any case. My hands are as bloody as those of Cain, killed my brother. With these hands, I killed my flesh and blood."

  "Your brother was the SS commandant of the camp?"

  "Yes. He—he was a monster. I murdered him when the Soviet tanks were within five miles of Offhiauzen, and took his papers and fled. I assumed his identity long enough to get back to the German lines. His papers got me through And when I reached the Allies and requested asylum in the West, I took back my own identity. This is what caused confusion in Herr Bellau's notorious files. So am I innocent? I, who killed my own brother?"

  "He was a murderer many times over."

  "But I had no right to execute justice for myself! We were boys together, we shared personal memories—"

  "He was a monster, as you say, and you did right to him."

  Steigmann turned angrily. "And Bellau is a monster, too Why do you not kill him? But he is your ally, you work your espionage nets with him, and you wink at his evill Bah! I am finished with you. Let me work out my own salvation, and let me save my daughter's life."

  "You won't save her," Durell said grimly. "We'll all die."

  But Steigmann was adamant. He turned his back to Durell and summoned his two assistants back to work. Durell had no idea of the laser technicalities involved. It occurred to him that if he could smash this instrument, the world would gain time in which to breathe again. He considered his chances. It meant certain death for himself, of course—death for all of them trapped in this mountain. The Dancer hounds, with their glittery eyes, might never let him reach the laser tube if he moved suspiciously. A single leap would bring them on his back, scimitars flashing, from their position near the wall. . . .

  The wall.

  It was different from the smooth tile of the rooms and corridors he had seen elsewhere. The wall they leaned against was of rough-hewn, ancient stones, set in huge blocks without mortar. It was a piece of the crumbling ruins of the monastery atop Djebel Kif. It made sense. In this laboratory, they were near the topmost level of the Prophet's hideout. This wall must be a foundation buttress for the Byzantine structure directly above.

  But there was more.

  Set in the wall was a heavy door with huge strap hinges of hand-wrought iron, and a massive lock in the center of the planking. The door looked as if it had not been opened for centuries. Probably the key was long lost. Even if it still existed, it was certainly not here in this room. And it was probably beyond the strength of any man to break it open, even if he could get beyond the twins who stood directly before it.

  No, it was impossible.

  Given the slightest provocation, the hounds would gladly kill him instantly. He had no weapons. And time was running out. How many hours did he have before Steigmann was satisfied with the operation of the laser gun? One? Five? Ten? He'd been ordered to complete his work by nightfall. That left eight hours. But he might never be given a chance to approach this room again.

  It had to be now.

  Somehow.

  At whatever cost.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A MUTED bell sounded in the room, even as Durell tensed for action of any kind. He checked himself. The Dancers reacted like Pavlov's dogs to the chimes, murmuring to each

  other. The Japanese and Italian technicians turned pale and made themselves busier than before. Only Steigmann seemed not to have been indoctrinated to the signal. He kept working, absorbed in his problems.

  Then Selim El-Raschid came in. Behind him, toddling on tiny feet, more like a toad than ever beside the giant hawk's figure of the Second Prophet, was Inspector Bellau.

  At first, there was something ludicrous about the Munich agent, who looked like a gnomish court jester from some tale of the Caliphate—until you looked closely at the yellow eyes, the warped intelligence that now shone without inhibition through his former mask of suavity. Of the two, the eagle and the toad, it was hard to tell which was more dangerous or amoral.

  "Herr Durell," Bellau said quietly. "Have you satisfied your curiosity? Learned enough? We have been most lenient with you."

  "It is appreciated," said Durell. "Only the stupid man continues to—" He was about to say "butt his head against a stone wall." He checked himself and finished: "—^to struggle against overwhelming odds."

  "But wisdom comes too late for you," El-Raschid said thinly. "We have decided about your value to us. Herr Bellau was most helpful in assessing the information you might give us."

  "And?" Durell asked.

  But he knew the answer. It was marked on their faces, in their eyes.

  El-Raschid waved a strong, brown hand to the two Dancer guards.

  "Kill him," he said quietly.

  Perhaps it was only a subtle form of torture, a trap to judge his reaction. But he couldn't afford the gamble of meekly extending his throat to the knives the hounds flashed at him. He had only one chance.

  The laser tube was between him and the Dancers. As they jumped, their knives making glittery arabesques in the air, he slammed his hip against the "muzzle" of the light gun and sent it spinning on its mount to smash into the first twin. As he heard the Dancer on his left grunt with surprise, he put a hand on what would be the breech of a normal gun and vaulted over it, feet first, knees locked. His heels smashed into the second man's stomach. Unfortunately, he wore only the soft leather slippers he had found beside his bed when he had wakened. But the effect was still enough.

  The Dancer staggered under the blow and crashed into his twin brother. At that moment, the first Dancer had recovered from the impact of the laser tube and was slashing with his scimitar at Durell's flying figure. The second man staggered between them. There was an ugly thunk! as razor-sharp steel shced through flesh, tendon and bone as if through cheese. Blood gouted as the Dancer's head leaped from his shoulders, fell, rolled, and bounced with wild dead eyes toward El-Raschid.

  The first guard screamed in anguish at what he had done. His eyes were incredulous circles of white as he followed the rolling, bumping head of his brother.

  Durell slammed the dead torso at him. He had no time to think of the horror in the room. The Dancer screamed again, and Durell heard El-Raschid shout something, and then Durell caught the guard's wrist and wrenched him backward, toward the open port cut through the rock of the mountainside. The man slipped in the blood that gushed over the floor from the severed neck of his brother and fell backward, through the opening. For a frantic instant he clawed at the edge of the wall to prevent his fall. An image of Carole Bainbury's butchered body flickered through Durell's mind, and he hit the man with all his strength. The Dancer screamed a third time and fell back.

  For what seemed an eternity, they could hear his shrieks as he fell down and down the dizzy height to the rocks far below. Then it ended abruptly.

  It had all taken less than ten seconds.

  But El-Raschid had moved fast; his finger was poised to press an alarm button in the wall.

  "Don't!" Durell snapped.

  The bejeweled figure froze. But Bellau lurched forward on his short legs and reached up, straining, for the button. Durell slammed his weight on the laser gun and again swung it so that its beam, if discharged, would shrivel and wither the dwarf instantly.

 
"I'd hke to do it, Bellau," he said quietly.

  "It does not operate," Bellau said. His grin was vicious; his yellow eyes blazed. "You will die soon enough."

  Durell turned his head slightly. "Steigmann?"

  The scientist stammered: "The p-problem has been one of sealing power loss. The destructive range was limited. However, I believe now—"

  "It works?"

  "Y-yes, Herr Durell, but—"

  Durell found the obvious trigger. He pointed the tube at the ancient wooden doorway in the stone wall and squeezed. .. .

  Nothing seemed to happen.

  There was no sound, no dazzling flash of light, no explosion. . . .

  Then, in a formless instant of time, the heavy panels with their huge iron hinges simply vanished.

  There was a gust of invisible heat that seared the senses, followed by a hunmiing, and then a small clattering of molten drops of stone. Dust filled the room and set them all to coughing and staggering. El-Raschid's heavily embroidered robe was on fire, and the man shouted and beat at the flames that enveloped his giant figure.

  Where the door had been, there was now a seared hole where molten stone still dripped. Darkness gaped beyond, filled with a strange singing sound that faded even as he became aware of it. Durell took his hand from the laser gun. He could see, as if through a long, long. tunnel, a glimmer of light beyond the hole now, where the beam had cut through the foundations of the monastery ruins and even sliced through the opposite side of Djebel Kif's rocky shoulders.

  "Steigmann?" he said softly.

  "What—what have you done?"

  "Come with me."

  "Are you mad? You could have killed us all! You are a butcher—"

  "Come along."

  "I will not leave my daughter in this place."

  "We'll get her out later. Bellau!"

  The dwarf was trying to help El-Raschid beat out the flames in his ornate clothing. Neither seemed to hear him. It was too much to herd them with him, Durell decided. Without a gun as he was, they would be too great a burden for him. A bell clanged somewhere, and he heard the sound of running feet. Obviously, the discharge of the laser gun, however silent, had drained the atomic reactor far below and signaled a warning to El-Raschid's people. He had only moments to spare. He was committed now.