Assignment Afghan Dragon

by Unknown Author

  “He’s dead,” Durell said.

  “But—did you speak to him at all?”

  “He was a good servant of his state,” Durell said, “but in the end, he spoke only old heresies.”

  “The dragon?”

  “He tried for it, but Zhirnov was too quick for him. Zhirnov shot him, broke his spine. When that happened, Chou’s tribesmen turned their attention to looting the car. Then we came along.” He thought of the secret luggage space in the wrecked Ferrari, a space that only he and Nuri Qam knew about, but which someone had opened, someone who must also have known about it. He didn’t mention it to the girl in his arms. He said, “It’s my bet that Zhirnov got back to the road and bought himself a lift on a passing truck. Maybe he killed the driver. He must be still going south, getting farther and farther ahead of us while we’re here. Do you have any idea what time it is, Anya?”

  “It turned dark only a couple of hours ago.”

  “Then I’ve been out for about four hours?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “Sam?”

  “Ummm?”

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  “I can’t help it,” he said, aware of the revived heat in him.

  “You do not love me, of course.”

  “We have to keep warm.”

  “Not this way.”

  “Why not?”

  “You have a woman back home?”

  “Home is far away.”

  “You love her? You are married?”

  “No, not married. I can’t afford any strings to my life. I won’t give the opposition any handle by which they can reach me.”

  “That is a selfish attitude. If she loves you and wishes to assume the risks of your work, you should still be willing to accept her into your life—”

  “You’re too serious.”

  “Love is serious. We Russians—”

  “You’re no different from others. My work is serious, too. Do you have a man back in Moscow, Anya?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And Moscow is a long way from here, too.”

  “Yes.”

  He touched silent tears on her small face. He heard the footsteps of the guard pacing around the tent. Anya’s breath quickened helplessly as they lay entwined in the dark. The guard’s boots paused, then went on again, circling the tent. Anya came back to him with a little whispered moan . . .

  “Yes, Sam . . . oh, yes . . .”

  Later, he searched the tent, feeling his way in the darkness with extreme care to avoid alerting the tribesmen outside. Now and then he heard guttural voices speaking, not too far away. The smell of the cooking fires slowly died away. The night grew colder. The tent was twelve feet in diameter, he judged, supported by four comer poles that kept the tattered covering no more than four feet over their heads. The floor was only the cold, rocky shale, but then in one comer near the pole he found a heap of sheepskins that had been tossed aside. Underneath the skins, to his pleasure and surprise, he found his khaki bush jackets and slacks and boots, and Anya’s clothing as well. The pockets were all empty, of course; his papers, money and weapons were gone, grabbed by thieving fingers. Still, he was grateful for the find. He crouched back toward Anya and knelt beside her with her clothing.

  “Here. We can stay warm legitimately, now.”

  She dressed quickly in the darkness, but the gleam of firelight that seeped under the flap of the tent revealed her slim, rounded body as she pulled on her clothes.

  “What will they do with us, Sam?” she whispered. “Nothing, at the moment. I think the camp is all asleep, except for our guard stomping around outside.”

  “But in the morning?” she asked.

  “I don’t think they’re going to kill us; they would have done so already, if that was their intention. Maybe they have some idea of holding us for ransom. Or—” He paused.

  “Or what, Sam?”

  “Some of these mountain tribes still go in for slavery. There was a whole people once, related to Hazara tribe, who were enslaved for centuries. Some of that nasty habit probably still survives. There’s very little law that can reach into the Hazarajat.”

  She shuddered. “I’d rather they killed us.”

  “Not I,” Durell said lightly. “We’re still alive, and that’s the main thing.”

  “But they beat you so awfully—”

  “Yes, I still ache. Don’t remind me of it. By the way, Freyda Hauptman-Graz was with Chou, when Chou hired these people to trap Zhirnov. Have you seen anything of her?”

  “What I saw, I don’t want to remember.”

  “She’s here?” he asked.

  “In the next tent. I heard her screaming for what seemed hours.” Anya’s voice was tight. “They pegged her out in the tent, after stripping her, and I guess every man in the group had her, one after the other.” She paused again. “I kept waiting, wanting to die, thinking I would be next. But they didn’t come into this tent; I don’t know why, except maybe because you were here.”

  Durell thought about it. Zhirnov had escaped Chou’s trap, certainly—the trap that had turned itself on Chou and the German woman; perhaps the bandits knew that Anya was Russian, like Zhirnov, and planned to learn from her what it was that Zhirnov had that was so valuable. The question of Anya would not be pleasant. And it meant that their time was rapidly running out. At any time the mood seized him, the chief of the group could be coming for the girl.

  He did not discuss it with Anya. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness in the tent, and he could see her with fair clarity as she sat with her knees under her chin, rocking slightly, her pale face watching him. The faint light from under the tent flap was broken regularly by the shadows of the guard’s boots as he circled the tent. There was nothing helpful in their sheepskin prison. Not even a knife to cut their way out, nor a stone he could use as a weapon. His head ached less, and the slow movements he had made as he searched the tent had eased the stiffness of his bruised muscles. He did not think they would be allowed to remain here unmolested until morning.

  He knelt beside Anya. “I’m going to try to slip out and explore a bit. Will you be all right now?”

  .“Don’t go away from me,” she said. “I’m sorry, I—I’m not myself, you see, so much has happened to confuse me—”

  “Still thinking of Zhirnov?”

  “Yes. I have been disloyal to him, believing I am right in suspecting that he really works for General Goroschev, in Moscow—the man who imprisoned Colonel Skoll—” “Cesar Skoll won’t stay in jail too long,” Durell said. “Not if I know him as I think I do. He’ll manage to expose Goroschev’s plan to instigate-war—and then it will all be over.”

  “But—but what will happen to me?” Anya asked.

  “You can always come to the States,” he suggested.

  “No, I will not be a defector.”

  He spoke gently. “It will work out. Stay here. Don’t move about to attract the guard’s attention. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She said simply, “I am frightened.”

  18

  He moved to the far side of the tent where the flap was up and got down on his stomach and peered out. At first he could see only a dim red glow from the campfire; then he made out the black shapes of other tents nearby. He counted four, with the shapes of tethered camels beyond, against a rise of rock. There were no more than a dozen of the beasts, and since the women usually walked and the camels carried camp equipment, he assumed there were about a dozen fighting men in the group, as well.

  He ducked back when the guard’s booted feet came around the tent. The man came very close to the low-pitched edge of the tent. Durell looked up at the sky and saw a bright spatter of stars against cold velvet. The tip of the moon gleamed above a jagged ridge of mountains. They could not have traveled far from the ambush site, but then elevation here in these wild hills was high enough to cause the night’s biting cold. The other tents were pitched in a rough line at the base of a rock abutment for shelter from
the wind. That meant the next tent was the one where Freyda had met her agonies.

  The sentry’s boots sounded again. Flat on his stomach, Durell waited, then suddenly slid out from under the tent flap, grabbed the man’s ankle, yanked hard. There was a muffled sound from the guard, but before his voice lifted in a yell of alarm, Durell had him down with a heavy thud and clapped a hand over his mouth. The man’s rifle clattered as it fell. He was wearing Durell’s wristwatch. His clothing stank of rancid fat and sweat. The shock of his sudden fall had knocked the breath out of him, and Durell’s stiff fingers stabbed for his larynx. The man tried to jerk his way free; he was thickset and strong, but there was no air in his lungs when Durell cut it off. They were locked together for a long minute while the man thrashed under him. Durell watched the eyes change, popping, growing glazed; he stabbed deeper and something suddenly crushed. There was a strong sound from deep inside the sentry’s body, a tremor, and then the guard was still.

  Durell did not move, waiting and listening. The noise made by the guard’s falling rifle had seemed quite loud, but no one came to investigate. The camp was asleep. But it would not be so for long, he thought grimly.

  He got to his feet, picked up the rifle. He also retrieved his watch from the dead man’s wrist. Erect, he could see that the camp was pitched close to a wall of a narrow pass in the mountains. A stream tumbled down through the rocks a bit below the site. There were only the five tents he had counted. The dung fire was almost out, leaving only a small heap of glowing coals occasionally spitting sparks in the gusty cold wind. No other tribesmen were outside the tents.

  The rifle felt reassuring as he moved toward the adjacent tent. In a moment he brushed aside the flap and stepped inside, ducking low under the black hide covering.

  “Freyda, don’t make a sound,” he whispered.

  There was a muffled whimpering from the darkness that reeked around him. He closed the tent flap and heard a scraping noise, a quick inhalation of breath; his foot touched a leg and he dropped quickly to his knees.

  “Freyda? It’s me. Sam Durell.”

  “Oh, no, nicht . . ." The words became garbled German. He smelled blood inside the tent. Even though he was only a foot or two away from the woman, he could not see her. “It is so?” she finally gasped. “It is the Cajun?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “But how did you—why should you—?”

  “Are you badly hurt?” he whispered.

  “Hurt? Ach, yes, I am hurt. A young girl dreams of men, older women dream of men, but these are stinking, filthy animals. Shall I tell you the things they made me do, naked before them, one after the other—”

  He clapped a hand over her mouth to quiet her rising hysteria. He was glad he could not see her in the darkness. He said, “Did you know that Chou is dead?”

  “So? What do I care for that Chinese? It was all his fault, in any case. If not for my sister in Peking—”

  “She’s dead, too,” he said bluntly.

  He felt her body jerk as if he had struck her. But he knew that brutality was necessary. “Listen, Freyda. It came over the Peking radio. Madame Strelsky and the General—both dead in an alleged lover’s quarrel. There’s no reason to doubt it, do you understand? She will never leave China now. She will be buried there.”

  “No.”

  “It’s true.”

  “No! Go away.”

  A sob caught in her throat. He moved back a little and waited. Freyda was silent for a long time. Her teeth finally began to chatter. He was ready to stifle her if she screamed or raised her voice.

  “Freyda?” he whispered.

  “What do you want?”

  “I need your help.”

  “From me?” Her laughter was harsh, almost soundless. “You have not seen what I look like now. My face—they used knives. My breasts, my stomach, my feet. I cannot walk. How can I help you?”

  “Did you see Zhirnov?”

  “Him? Yes.”

  “Is he here in the camp?”

  “Oh, no. That one is like a cat. He got away from Chou and his men.”

  “You’re sure of that?” It was as Durell had suspected.

  “With the verdamnt dragon, yes.” She paused. “And Chou turned on these savages and shouted at them and they rejected his appeal and attacked us—we, who paid them in the first place. They are treacherous, inhuman—”

  “All right.” He silenced her. “I’ll come back.”

  “Do not hurry,” she said.

  He slipped silently out of the tent. But he chose an unfortunate moment to make his exit. Two men had just come out of the tent beyond the dying fire. Both carried rifles, but they held them loosely, muzzles pointed down. They saw Durell at the same moment he spotted them. He could not stop their shouts of alarm. One of them, bulky in a heavy Army coat, raised his rifle, an automatic Kalashnikov. Durell fired at once, his slug hitting the man in the chest, knocking him backward with his legs in the air as he hit the ground. The second man shouted and ducked back, and Durell ran across the campground, hurtling over the glowing fire, and got back to Anya’s tent. The rifle he had taken from the guard back there swung lightly in his hand.

  “Come out, Anya! Quickly!”

  The girl had trained reflexes. She ducked out into the cold night air at a low crouch that made her a small target. All around the camp, there were shouts and yells as men tumbled from their tents. Durell retreated with Anya out of the dark red glow of the firelight, backing toward the opening of the little ravine. Moonlight showed him black-and-white images of the turmoil among the tents. He fired high over the heads of the confused tribesmen and retreated another dozen paces to the shelter of some boulders. A glance over his shoulder showed him the trail down the mountain from the river road where they had first been ambushed. All around him, the hills were a contorted sea of cruel peaks and jagged valleys. He could only judge his general direction by the position of the moonrise.

  “It is hopeless,” Anya gasped. “We cannot escape.”

  The men still shouted and ran from tent to tent in the gloom. The wind made a piping sound, blowing dust up from the ground. Durell lifted the rifle and fired two more shots as several figures started toward them.

  “Stay here,” he said to Anya. “I’m going back.”

  She was appalled. “What for? We can run—”

  “Freyda needs help. And they have my money—

  Most of the tribesmen had vanished, leaving only the man he had first hit sprawled beyond the campfire. Durell ran in a zigzag course back to the fire. A single shot whipped out of the darkness, seeking him out. He ignored it, reached the fallen man as another shot smashed into the stony ground nearby. The dead man was big, muffled in his Army coat with flaps that spread around him and made him look like a giant, fallen insect. The shadow of the cliffs provided adequate darkness. Durell put down the rifle and rapidly searched the dead man. The tribesman had been a chief, evidently. He found his wallet, passport and .38 handgun almost at once. Luck, he thought. But the luck did not hold. When he arose again, only moments later, two men hurtled at him out of the cold, windy darkness.

  His reflexes were still' slowed by the beating he had taken when they first captured him. The first man jumped feet first, his boots slamming into Durell’s ribs, knocking him over. He rolled, grabbed at a leg, pulled the tribesman down over him before the second man could fire into his exposed body. They rolled over and over toward the glowing embers of the fire, then into the hot coals. The caravan man landed face first into the pit and screamed from the depths of his gut as his face was seared. Durell kept rolling, the coals clinging to the back of his coat; he smelled charred cloth and broiled flesh from his enemy’s face. The second man circled, rifle ready, as Durell, on his back, kicked upward and caught him in the groin with the heel of his boot. From the other side of the camp came screams and yells as several camels broke loose and lumbered out into the darkness. The camels were more precious to these people than anything else. Wit
h their chief dead, they were close to panic, and then attention was divided between recapturing Durell and the big animals. Durell scrambled up and ran for Freyda’s tent.

  Someone else was in the dark interior beside the injured woman. He saw the flicker of a knife as the person arose from the prone figure. A hissing spate of dialect came at him and then the knife flashed and he felt the curved point hiss through his sleeve. He grabbed for the other’s wrist and twisted, felt a twinge in his battered ribs, and twisted harder. He realized it was a woman, perhaps one of the tribesmen’s wives. He swung his fist in a roundhouse blow that knocked the woman off her feet and across the tent. Picking up her knife, he found a match in his jacket and struck it. His fingers shook. One glance in the tiny bomb flare was enough.

  Freyda’s throat had been cut from ear to ear.

  The tribeswoman hissed at him in her mountain dialect that needed no interpreter to make her meaning clear. Durell took the bloody knife with him and ducked out of the low tent, ignoring her. Gunfire sounded up the narrow pass as the men tried to retrieve their stampeding camels. He ignored it, ignored the bodies of the men he had killed by the campfire, and jogged back to where he had left Anya.

  A man was with her. It was Howard, from the van.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Howard said calmly. “I came back to see if I could help.”

  He held a hunting rifle competently, as if he knew how to use it. His young grin made his white teeth flash in the moonlight. “I guess I missed all the excitement.”

  Durell suddenly felt exhausted. “You okay, Anya?”

  “Yes. But Freyda—”

  “Forget it.” He turned to the young man. “Where is your van?”

  “Back on the road, about four miles from here. Most of the way is downhill. Need some help, Mr. Durell?”

  “No, I’m all right,” Durell said.

  “You look funny. They really beat up on you, didn’t they? Lucy can fix you up. She studied nursing for a while. And I was a corpsman for a year, in Nam.”