Assignment Afghan Dragon

by Unknown Author

  “Mr. E.K. Qam, please.”

  “Not here, sir.”

  “His brother, then. Mr. Nuri Qam.”

  “Never heard of him, sir.”

  “Tell him it’s Durell,” he said quietly.

  “Durell?”

  “Hurry.”

  “Wait, please.”

  The bolts were shot home again. It seemed like a long wait before the door was opened again and he was finally admitted. Two large Afghanis in tribal costumes stood to either side of him. They were armed with snubby-barreled automatic rifles slung over their shoulders.

  “This way, Mr. Durell. Please be as quiet as possible. Mr. Qam does not wish to disturb the ladies, who are asleep on the roof.”

  “Thank you.”

  One of the men said respectfully. “You speak very good Farsi, sir.”

  “Pashto, and Dari, too,” Durell said.

  “Allah has blessed you. Come, please. Mr. Qam has been awaiting your arrival for several days.”

  There was an inner court where a fountain played over a blue-tiled mosaic basin the size of a small swimming pool. Feathery trees grew up against the fretwork galleries of the second floor, and he heard the sleepy twitter of caged birds somewhere. The moonlight was bright enough to let him see everything quite clearly. None of the rooms on the lower floor were lighted, but as they crossed the inner courtyard a light bloomed up above, on a second-level terrace reached by a stone stairway that hugged a blank wall. A voice called softly and one of the Afghani tribesmen answered in a reassuring tone. The place was like a fortress, Durell thought; once within the gates, it revealed another world, private and secret, armed against intruders. Nuri Qam’s brother, who had offered Nuri sanctuary here against the hostility of official Kabul, was evidently a man of considerable wealth. In the gardens were relics of the antique past, bulbous serpentine columns and pieces of time-worn statuary. The scent of spices and aromatic flavors drifted on the quiet night air.

  “Sam? Samuel? Is that you? Praise Allah, you got here at last.”

  Nuri Qam came out of the shadows of the second-level terrace and beckoned him upward. In an altered voice, querulous and arbitrary, Nuri Qam dismissed the two genial guards.

  “Sam, Sam. Have you eaten? Have you had dinner?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I shall order something from the kitchens. A real Afghan meal; you will enjoy it, I promise you, and we will talk while you eat, yes?”

  Nuri Qam had changed since their university days together. In New Haven, Nuri was a thin, intense youth preoccupied with the future of his troubled, backward country. He had been religious and abstemious, of complete morality, and he ignored the normal undergraduate frolics. But now apparently some inherited wealth and the soft life of upper officialdom had worked its way with him. It was difficult for Durell to see the slender, dedicated youth in this gross, overblown, softly rounded man. Qam wore a full white silk embroidered blouse and loose trousers of dark material stuffed into soft boots. His fat hands were ornamented with too many rings, and he had grown bald except for a fringe of dark hair around his shining scalp. He carried a prayer book in his left hand as he wrung Durell’s fingers. His belly forbade the traditional hug and kiss, for which Durell was grateful. Qam’s face, round as the moon sailing in the night sky, was jowly and wreathed in smiles. But the moonlight revealed an inner caution, a reserve, perhaps, that echoed the hunted man as he surveyed Durell’s height.

  “Good, good. I needed you, I sent for you, and here you are. Difficult to believe! Ever since our days at Yale, I have admired the good old U.S.A. I am in terrible difficulties, Sam, terrible. It is so good of your agency to lend you to me in this most embarrassing and awkward situation. And dangerous. Yes, I cannot stress that too much.

  Dangerous.” Nuri Qam paused, his hand at Durell’s elbow, and looked up at him sharply. “You understand, you have been lent to me, to be employed only by me? That you work strictly for me?”

  “That was the assignment.”

  “Excellent, excellent. We shall get along very well in resolving this terribly urgent matter.”

  “You’re talking about the dragon?”

  “Of course. What else? It has preyed on my mind ever since that foolish little archaeologist, Professor Berghetti, tried to smuggle it out of Afghanistan.”

  “And where is Berghetti now?”

  “Later. Later, we shall talk. First you must eat, yes?” Nuri Qam clapped his ringed hands, and a stout, veiled woman appeared, to whom he gave rapid orders in Dari. Then Qam led Durell into the building, through a modified Moorish archway. The entire household was either asleep or moving about on terrified tiptoe, Durell reflected.

  Twenty minutes later he was seated crosslegged on a cushion upon the floor, before a dark red embroidered cloth spread upon the Khorasan rug, being served a hot meal. He ate without reserve, feeling a sudden enormous hunger. The stout, veiled woman, who might have been Qam’s wife or merely the household cook, brought him maushawa, a soup that included beans and meatballs and tomato sauce, then shashlik. The triple squares of mutton were juicy and tender on the sir, the skewer, alternated with wedges of fat from -the sheep’s tail. Dish after dish appeared, yoghurt marinades of garlic and vinegar, more grilled kebabs with pilaus spiced with coriander and pepper, cardamom and cloves, topped with raisins and chopped nuts. He was served an Iranian wine in a tall goblet crusted with gold; very strong chai sia, black tea in scalding hot cups; and of course sweets of all sorts, figs and fruit and small rice cakes called kolchas. There were no utensils, and he used only the crusty nan, flat bread, to scoop up the food. Nuri Qam smiled continuously and did not join him until the desserts arrived, whereupon he reached across the cloth-covered rug and ate greedy handsful.

  During the meal", Qam insisted on talking of nothing but his years in the States, his education, his brother who had gone to Cambridge and then emigrated to Iran, where his business had prospered enormously. The brother, Qam said, was presently in Tehran closing a deal. Qam did not identify the nature of the business or the deal, but Durell, surveying the long narrow room, with its masonry fretwork opening onto the long balcony, the opulent furnishings and the art objects, did not question his host about it. He noted, however, several fine European paintings, a French inlaid cabinet of rosewood and Cellini gold, along with antique objects from the Sassanid and the Seljuk dynasties prior to the tidal wave of armies led by Togrul Beg a millenium ago. There were fine gold-handled swords, round Mongol shields, an illuminated Koran, double the size of an average book. There were Turkoman robes and rugs, Uzbek helmets, all ranged around the high-ceilinged room which was decorated with tiles and mosaics inscribed with flowing Arabic script in gilt letters against blue.

  “Your brother is an art collector?” Durell finally asked. “Of sorts, of sorts.” Nuri Qam waved a disparaging hand. “You see here only a small part of his collections. He can grow very passionate one moment, and neglect it all the next. It is not of our concern.”

  “The thought occurs to me,” said Durell, “that perhaps he would like what we call the Afghan Dragon added to his private collection.”

  “Yes, I realized the thought would occur to you, Sam. But you must put it from your mind at once. It is an intolerable idea. Truly, we must not begin with mistrust.”

  “That’s how I survive in my business,” Durell said. “But. then,” Nuri smiled, “why would I have sent for you, a man of your reputation and esteem, a man who is feared by both Russian and Chinese alike? Yes, your capacities, your professional abilities, are well known to me. I never forgot about you, you see. I have followed your career with the utmost interest. And of all the men in the world, I have turned to you.”

  “To recover the dragon,” Durell said flatly.

  “Yes. Naturally.”

  “For whom?” he asked quietly.

  Nuri Qam’s dark eyes were subtle. “For my government, naturally. It is ours.”

  “Is it worth the threat of an invasion?”
r />   “We have our pride.”

  “Will Kabul give it back to the Chinese People’s Republic, who claim the dragon?”

  “Never.” Nuri was emphatic. “It is a matter of national honor. We will not be bullied over it. We are quite without fear, whatever private threats Peking makes.”

  “And the Soviets? Where do they come into it?”

  “They would merely like to embarrass Peking by gaining possession of the dragon. This is a matter that does not concern me.”

  “It concerns me,” Durell said, thinking of Fingal. “Why are you hiding here, Nuri, in this place, which is like a fortress?”

  “I fear for my life, and the lives of my wives and children. They are all sheltered here. Certain political enemies would like me removed because I made several embarrassing mistakes in this matter.” Nuri struggled to his feet, his ponderous weight getting in his way. “Come. We shall talk upstairs.”

  “This room is good enough,” Durell said. He remained seated. “You want me to find the dragon?”

  “Of course. Why else—?”

  “But I think you have it already, Nuri,” Durell said.

  13

  Nuri Qam looked at Durell as if he were lost in a sudden dream. Durell rose softly to his feet.

  “How long have you been in Meshed, Sam?” Nuri asked vacantly.

  “Since noon.”

  “Nine hours, then.”

  “Yes, nine hours.”

  “And here, in this country?”

  “Almost two days.”

  “Two days. And I sent for you four days ago?”

  “So I was told.”

  “Yes, on Monday. And in so short a time, you have come to the conclusion that I, who sent for you to find it, have the dragon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “The Russians don’t have it; they’re killing for it. They killed the contact man, Homer Fingal; did you know that, Nuri?”

  “No, I was not told.”

  “The Chinese don’t have it, either; they’re looking for it and they’re ready to kill for it, too. They have two Afghanis as muscle men and a Chinese controller, a Mr. Chou. Ever heard of him?”

  “No, I—”

  “There is also a German couple working for the Chinese, right?”

  “I don’t know about them, either.”

  “And Berghetti has vanished. Tell me about Professor Berghetti,” Durell suggested.

  Nuri Qam spoke as if to the warm night air blowing in through the Moorish arches around the terrace. “I was afraid of leaks. I was afraid of someone else learning about it. Berghetti was foolish, but he did not talk, except to me. Yet it reached the newspapers and the world; it went to Peking and Moscow. I was appalled. But these things do happen. There are always ears that listen, tongues that wag. So I was afraid. I do not want to die yet, although the time will come when Allah calls for me, and I will have to go. But I enjoy life. There is time enough for Paradise, eh?”

  “Berghetti,” Durell reminded him.

  “He was put in custody, on my orders, in Herat, across the border. I went from Kabul to interview him. I was coming this way, anyway, to visit my brother here and his family. Berghetti finally showed me the dragon. He was very contrite. He admitted he had made a foolish mistake, trying to smuggle it out of Afghanistan.”

  “You actually saw the dragon? It exists?”

  “Oh, yes. On my word. It is real enough.”

  “And what happened to Berghetti?”

  “I gave him his parole. You must understand—” Nuri Qam paused and swallowed and spread his fat hands. The jeweled rings flashed in the light. “I was fascinated. I share my brother’s love for antiquities, for the beauties of the past, for jewels and fine art objects. It is a passion with me, not as much as it is with my brother, but a passion, nonetheless. I talked for hours with Berghetti, after he told me where he had hidden the dragon and I saw it. We talked about his digs and what he found and where. We—I thought we were friends. I was prepared to advocate leniency for his attempt to smuggle the treasure out of Afghanistan. It was a mistake. He betrayed me. He escaped and took back the dragon, which I was holding personally in my possession.”

  “And no word from him since?”

  “Oh, yes. He tried to make his way to Pakistan, through Qali-i-Kang, in the Afghan Seistan, where he made his find originally. Then he went by road to Farahrod and Ghirisk toward the eastern border. A foolish man, as I said. He is still in that region. Privately jailed. With the rest of his treasures made secure. None of his other finds were as important as the dragon, of course, but still—of great value. Yes, great value.” Qam all but smacked his lips. “He can rot there in that provincial jail, for all I care.”

  “But you kept the dragon. He didn’t really get it back from you, did he?” Durell said.

  “Yes. The Chinese want it. Kabul wants it, of course. The Soviets want it just to stir up trouble. And I want it, too, of course.”

  Durell said, “Where is it, Nuri?”

  “Here. In this room. Just over there.”

  Durell moved quietly across the long, narrow chamber, aware of the beautiful ornamentation that surrounded him; he felt as if he were in some palace of the Caliph Harun el-Raschid, of bygone days. In the year 817 Ali Reza had died after asking to be buried next to the Caliph of Baghdad, his archenemy, as a sign of vindication and rebuke. Those were the days and nights of bloody daggers and subtle poisons, Durell thought. He watched the stout figure of Nuri Qam from a corner of his eye, never letting the man out of his sight.

  The box was small, about twelve inches square and nine inches deep. It was crusted with pearls and ornate gold, with gilded hasps for the lid and inlaid mother-of-pearl again set in script from the Koran. In itself, the box was a treasure. It was relatively new, however, and obviously had not lain buried in the Afghan deserts for a thousand years before Professor Berghetti and his crew of hippie workers dug it up. Durell lifted the box gently and was surprised by its weight.

  “There is no keyhole,” he said.

  “And no key,” said Nuri Qam.

  “Open it.”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “I want to see the dragon, Nuri. This was supposed to be a simple search and delivery job. I want to see what I’m supposed to deliver. Open it, Nuri.”

  “Very well, Sam.”

  Durell wondered if Nuri Qam had a weapon under his loose blouse or in the baggy trousers tucked into his soft boots. The Afghani took the box from him and held it in a certain way, turning its narrow end toward him; he pressed it against his bulging belly, his fingers moving over the inlay of nacre, and there came a small, well-oiled click. The lid sprang up.

  Durell did not take the box from Nuri Qam’s hands.

  “Lift it out,” he said.

  “So. You do not trust me, Sam?”

  “You still have some things to explain.”

  “In good time, old friend. Yes, all will be made clear. So here is the dragon, this thing that nations will quarrel over and threaten dreadful war. A thing of beauty, but not so beautiful as to warrant the death of millions. Merely an excuse for war. A spur to the showdown between our monstrous neighbors to the north, eh? Here. The dragon.”

  Even in Durell’s eyes, he knew he was looking at something of exquisite, classical beauty.

  There was something of the T’ang style in the translucent jade body of the dragon, in the manner in which the vicious little head was raised, the way the ruby eyes glared with a malevolence a thousand years old. Between its golden fangs, cunningly locked within the jaws, was a large, gleaming pearl. The tiny back was tipped with gold, as were the upraised claws. The projecting tongue was another exquisitely shaped ruby. But the intrinsic value of the statuette had nothing to do with the price it might command in the world’s art market. Five million was a low estimate of its price. It felt extraordinarily heavy in his hands.

  “The belly,” Nuri Qam said softly. His dark eyes gleamed with passion.
“It carries in its belly an egg of solid gold.”

  It did, indeed. Durell stared at it for a moment more, then lifted it and returned it to its carved box. Nuri Qam snapped the fid shut with a small click.

  “Let him stay in darkness for a little longer,” Qam murmured. “He did not mind waiting for ten centuries. He was a secret appeal, you know, from Prince Chan to the local rulers; a bribe to resist the Mongol hordes. An appeal for war and massacre, to turn the Hamun lakes red with blood. And so it happened. But it was the Mongols who made their mountains of skulls from the heads of their enemies. And the dragon slept until now.”

  Durell said, “He could awaken new monsters to ravage the world.”

  “Yes, he could.”

  “So you had it all along?”

  “Yes.”

  “To keep for yourself?”

  “I fled from Herat with it, across the border, to this sanctuary.” Nuri Qam’s voice trembled slightly now. “I was in fear of my life. I still am. I could appeal to no one. Not even my government would help me. It was—how would you say it, so inelegantly—a hot potato. Only if I can appear in Kabul with it can I reinstate myself against the wishes of my political enemies. And I cannot take it there myself. Someone—deliberately, I am sure—has been threatening the airlines with bombs, kidnapping, skyjacking. So security is very tight. If I carried the dragon into the airport to board a plane, it would be discovered in the routine of special search now going on among the passengers. I do not want that to happen. I doubt if I could even reach the airport alive, eh? But you came here, Sam, all the way from the States. You are here now. I begin to believe you can do anything. You can take the dragon for me.”

  Durell said, “Overland? By car? It’s a long, long drive.”

  “You can do it.”

  “I’d rather not,” Durell said.

  “But you were lent to me for this purpose, Sam.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You are afraid? Like me?”

  “You’re damned right I’m afraid. I wouldn’t want to lose it.”