“I told you, dear. I just want to.”
The breeze stirred by the car’s passage moved her dark hair. It had lost its brush-fire lights with the coming of dusk, and now looked jet black, thick and lustrous. She was a beautiful, desirable girl. And although Durell knew women as well as any man could know them, he did not understand this woman at all. She was making it plain that she loved him and wanted him; she made no real secret of offering herself to him, if he would only say the word. Yet something about her did not ring true to his trained senses. He wished he knew more about her background.
He felt her warm thigh against his as he drove, then her hands touched him lightly, and without warning she delved into his pocket and plucked out the file he had taken from the Safe Section. He made an involuntary gesture and the oar swerved crazily, rode up an embankment, smashed through low-hanging branches, and bounced hard on the road again. Anger surged in him.
“Give me that,” he snapped. He reached for the envelope as she drew back, smiling. “Corinne! Hand it over."
She laughed throatily. “Watch the road, darling. You’ll kill us both.”
He braked to an abrupt, screaming stop, and dust swirled up in a thick, silent cloud over the car. The motor ticked. In the evening twilight he heard the sound of a brook, the sleepy twitter of a bird. There was woodland on both sides of the road, pressing in close, and not a house or a light in sight.
“What do you think you’re doing?" he asked the girl.
“This is what you took from the fourth floor, isn’t it?”
“Don't be a fool.”
She held the envelope with exaggerated delicacy between her fingertips. Her eyebrows arched. “I knew you had taken something, Sam. I felt the paper in your pocket. Perhaps you’d like to wrestle for it?”
“Corinne—“
Lights flickered in the rear mirror.
Durell looked back, and the lights vanished. In the gray twilight he saw the movement of another car easing up the lonely lane behind him. Alarm jangled in him.
Corinne laughed softly.
He twisted away from her, thumbed the starter, kicked the motor to life. Corinne still held the envelope. He ignored it. His car jounced back onto the road and he tramped hard on the gas. Behind them, the headlights flickered up again, came on with a rush while he still gathered speed.
There came a sudden snapping sound, and a star appeared in the windshield, centered by a small bullet hole. The gunshot sounded an instant later, as an afterthought.
“What—” Corinne said.
Durell swung the car in a tight, sharp curve of the road. The way lifted up to the top of a long, rolling rise. The wind of their passage made a sullen roaring noise.
“Who are they?” Durell gritted.
“I—I don’t know. Was that a shot? I don’t—”
“Don’t lie, you bitch. You got me out here. You knew they would come. Who hired you to do it?”
Her voice lifted high, unnatural in pitch. “Honestly, Sam, I didn’t! Believe me!"
He risked a sidelong glance at her. Corinne‘s face was pale and taut in the twilight. He snapped on his headlights to puncture the gloom ahead. The car lifted over the crest of the wooded hill, swooped down a curving descent, and rumbled wildly over a small wooden bridge. There was only desolate brush and woodland on every side. Behind them, the other car was gaining inexorably, closing the gap between them.
There was another shot. And another.
Both missed.
Corinne made a small, queer sound in her throat.
Anger and chagrin rode with Durell as he urged the car to its limits. The road grew narrower and changed abruptly from blacktop to gravel. The car behind drew closer. The headlights winked and bounced and glared, and lances of brightness slashed Durell’s eyes. The road twisted left, right, left again. The gravel changed to dirt. Pebbles hammered and rattled under the tires. The wheels caught in deep ruts and they swerved wildly. Corinne screamed. It was totally dark now. They plunged ahead as if boring through a black, twisting tunnel.
The pursuing car was only fifty feet behind them.
Something white flickered in the road ahead. A wooden, painted barrier. Red reflector buttons winked and shimmered.
Durell cursed and slammed on the brakes.
The car slued, left the road to slash through underbrush. Durell felt himself lifted as they rose on two wheels, then slammed down again with a bone-jarring crash. The barrier rushed at them with perilous speed. His headlights lanced beyond the white boards and topped trees that leaned into a deep ravine beyond where the road ended. Dust roiled up around them and then the car stopped, rocking, only a few feet from the fence.
The other car slowed to a halt behind them.
“Get out,” Durell said to the girl.
“But you can’t—”
He leaned over and snapped open the door and shoved her hard. She fell from the car. He vaulted to the ground after her, glimpsing the Manila envelope she still clutched in her hand. Her face was twisted by terror as she looked back; her dark hair was in loose strands across her cheek. Three dim shapes came running toward them.
There was no moon, no stars. Durell reached into his car and snapped off the headlights. Darkness, except for the twin glaring beams from the other car, folded around them. He grabbed for Corinne’s free hand.
“Give me the file,” he said harshly. “Quick!”
“They have guns,” she whispered.
He pulled the envelope from her fingers, thrust it into his pocket, took her hand again, and ran toward the barrier. They were pursued by a hoarse shout of command. A gun cracked. Past the barrier, the brush made a thick tangle of growth, and the sides of the ravine pitched sharply down into deeper blackness. Durell felt a burning sensation in his throat. The girl- stumbled, dragged him backward as he started to slide down the embankment. Water chuckled darkly far below.
“Sam, please. I can’t—” she wailed.
“Shut up,” he said.
From above, three dim shapes suddenly made gray outlines against the faintly luminous sky.
“Durell!”
They knew his name. They knew what he had for them.
The girl tripped and fell again. He thought of abandoning her, but there was an anger in him that was reflected in the iron grip he kept on her wrist. They had been waiting for him to leave the Triton Club. They knew all about him. She had led him down this dark way deliberately, knowing about the others. His hatred was like black acid inside him.
The sound of running water was nearer now. He scrambled down the slope, slammed into the invisible trunk of a tree, and lost his hold on the girl. She gave a little cry and lurched away. Branches crashed and crackled behind and above him. There were no more shouts. The chase was carried on in grim silence.
He went on. The girl was nearby, but beyond his reach now. The darkness in the brush was a blindfold over his eyes. He paused, sucked in a great breath, and pulled his gun from his pocket. There was no sense in further flight. Already one of the men was beyond him, circling wide, obviously familiar with the terrain. His dim shadow flickered for a moment against the gleam of the creek far below. Durell got his back against the wide, slanting trunk of an old birch. A branch snapped nearby and he lifted the gun, finger taut on the trigger. Corinne stumbled out of the shadows and fell against him.
“Sam, please,” she whispered. Her mouth was against his cheek as she leaned on him. Her dress was torn, and her body gleamed softly through the ripped gray cotton. Her skin was moist. “I didn‘t do this to you. Believe me, I didn‘t!”
“Durell!”
It was a voice like iron, harsh, commanding. It seemed to come from everywhere in the dark underbrush surrounding them.
He did not answer.
“Durell, give it up! Let the girl go!”
The gun felt wet in his hand.
The creek chuckled and giggled at him.
Corinne pressed hard against him. “Sam . . ."
&n
bsp; He pushed her away. She gave a little cry and fell, losing her balance on the precarious slope. There came a sudden rush of movement from two sides of the tree that sheltered him, and he triggered the gun twice, hearing the shots slam in echoes back and forth from the sides of the wild ravine. Then they were on him like a dark wave, a deluge of silent, ferocious strength. His gun was torn away. Something struck his head and he went down on hands and knees, swinging wildly in cold rage. He seemed to keep falling endlessly, down and down, and as he fell he heard the girl’s scream rise against the black night that enveloped him.
chapter FOUR
SOMEONE SHOOK HIM, called his name.
The voice came from a great distance above him, and the hands on him seemed to be shaking someone else, as if he were detached from his own body, yet an objective part of himself. Water trickled coldly, and he was aware of a sharp, wet chill. Voices muttered for a time. He pushed away at the hands on him, annoyance strong in him.
“Durell, can you hear me?”
There was a cunning in him, and he did not move or reply. Something sharp pressed painfully against his cheek. Water moved coldly over one foot. He opened his eyes a bit. Nothing. Darkness. But shadows moved in the dark. The pain in his cheek was an intolerable burning sensation, and he moved his head away from it. A stone, a sharp pebble. That was better now.
“Durell!”
Men towered over him, spread-legged, seen in distortion from where he sprawled on the pebbly bank of the creek. The trees slid and swooped and wavered high above, then steadied into perspective. Stars shone like polished chrome against a velvet night sky. His throat ached. There was a pain in his ribs. His left hand clutched fingersful of pins and needles.
“He‘s awake,” someone said.
“He’s all right. Hardheaded Cajun. Son-of-a-bitch.”
“Take it easy, Amos.”
“Who was he playing games with?”
“He'll tell us. Sam Durell is all right."
“The son-of-a-bitch."
Durell tried to sit up. There were two men, not three, and they stepped back a little, watching him with grave, anonymous faces shadowed by the trees and the starlight. He saw he was at the very bottom of the ravine, where the creek flowed over smooth dark rocks. High up on the slope was the white-painted barrier Where the road ended. There had been a bridge up there once. He must have rolled and fallen all the way down the rugged, brushy slope. And his clothing was ripped and torn, one pocket hanging in a loose, open flap by a fragile thread. He felt for his gun. It was gone. He felt for the envelope file. It was gone.
He began to retch suddenly, sickness rushing up in him like an acid tide.
The two men did not touch him or help him. They stood and watched in silence.
The waters of the creek chuckled, and early katydids sang a ululating paean to the August night. His sickness came in waves, and gradually subsided. leaving him weak and shaken. He sat back, leaning on his hands, and looked up at the two men.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The taller man had a long, aquiline nose and the thinly shadowed, bony face of a classic conspirator. He showed his dislike of Durell clearly. “I’m Hackett," he said. “This is Jones. We got a John Doe call you were out here, in trouble.”
“I don’t know any Hackett or Jones,” Durell said.
“I’m with the Q Committee.”
Durell looked at the smaller man. “You?”
“M.I., Pentagon.”
“Do you have to carry Hackett on your hack?”
Jones shrugged. “Hackett got the tip. He works for himself. Not out of our budget. It’s his privilege.”
“McFee sent you?”
Hackett replied thickly, “We don’t work for McFee. The Q Committee has no strings on it. You’re under arrest, you treasonous bastard.”
Durell stood up. He made it slowly, with deliberate care. His legs trembled for a moment, then steadied. When he was sure he wouldn’t fall down, he swung as hard as he could at Hackett. It was like hitting a stone wall with a fly-swatter. There was little strength in his arms, and the momentum of his swing made him stumble and pitch forward. Hackett laughed, a choked and eager sound. The shorter man, Jones, caught Durell and steadied him and pulled him away from his partner.
“Leave him alone, Amos.”
Hackett’s voice shook with anger. “Don’t get in my way, Jonesy. I warn you. He’s my baby. I’ll handle him. You can see how he is, huh? Hotheaded Cajun bastard. A lousy rat. He doesn’t have it with him.”
Durell said, “You look familiar, Hackett.”
“You’ll wish you were never born to see me,” Hackett spat.
“You were here before. With somebody else. Not Jones. It was two other guys. In the dark.”
“You got stones in your head.”
“I remember you,” Durell said.
“You’ll pray to forget me, Cajun.”
Durell looked at Jones. Jones was a short man in his middle thirties, compact, bull-shouldered, with straw hair and a round face. His eyes were calm, intelligent, a little worried. He didn’t believe what Durell said. His mouth was grave.
Durell said, “Who tipped you I was here?”
“Hackett told it. John Doe.”
“Not Jane?”
“What makes you think it might have been a woman?”
“I was brought here by a woman,” Durell said. “Ask Hackett. He followed me from the Triton Club and helped to mug me. Ask him. Look at him. What kind of game is he playing?”
Hackett’s thin, dark face was ugly, carved in angles and planes by the newly flooding moonlight. His voice rasped. “Don’t throw dust around, Durell. What did you do with the file you swiped from K Section?"
“You’ve got it,” Durell said flatly. “You slugged me and took it, less than an hour ago. So to hell with you.”
“You feel that tough?” Hackett asked.
“I’m feeling better all the time.”
Jones said, “Easy, Amos. Who was the woman, Durell?”
“Ask Hackett. He followed her when she led me down this garden path. He’s lying. He has the file. He knows all the answers.”
“I’ve had enough,” Hackett said.
Jones spoke again. “Take it easy. Well, Durell?"
Durell said nothing. The retching sickness still quivered inside him. He thought of Corinne Ybarra. She had led him here. She had lured him to this lonely cul-de-sac where he had been mugged and robbed of the files McFee expected to retrieve tomorrow. Despair settled around him like a dark mantle. He did not know what to do or say. He looked at Hackett and he was not really sure that Hackett was one of the three men who had followed him. It had been dark. It had happened too quickly. Yet there was a feeling in him that his shot at the Q man had hit a hidden mark. It didn’t make sense. If Hackett was one of the muggers, he had the file. Or did he? Not to judge by the way he acted, held in check only by Jones’s official status. Hackett had no real standing in the government. Was Hackett here because he had to be here or else tip his hand?
Durell had heard of the staff of the Q Committee, that extragovernmental, private organization headed by former Senator Hereward Quenton, of Texas. Bantam rooster in a ten-gallon hat, foaming at the mouth at subversives, loyalty risks, Reds, foreigners, damyankee liberals, Harvard eggheads. Comical, hut not too comical, with uncounted millions behind him. He loaned private investigators to various Congressional committees, serving without pay to the government, but on Quenton’s private payroll. The Q men were an embarrassment that had to be accepted or political axes would start to swing. Where had Quenton gained such influence? Politics, millions, a screaming, ranting press that made honest government employees wriggle and squirm and knuckle under rather than fight the avalanche of pressure Quenton could bring to bear on you.
All right, Durell thought, you’re only guessing about Hackett. Forget him. You expected to face tomorrow with a clear inner conscience, with no real damage done by McFee‘s plan. The file you
took would be safely back where it belonged. But now it was gone. And the roof had caved in.
“All right, let’s go,” Jones said finally.
Hackett pushed him roughly toward the slope that lifted up to the dead end of the road.
“Durell, I’d like to talk to you here, but Jones is too goddamn soft to work you over the way you ought to be worked on.”
“We don’t do things that way,” Jones said quietly.
“Which is too bad. He'd goddamn well talk to me, or he’d be floating down the creek on his belly.” Hackett paused, lifted his narrow head with a twitch. “Jonesy, he’s already got a few lumps. Nobody could say who gave him What, if we swiped him a couple times more.”
“No,” Jones said.
"But you can‘t talk to a son-of-a-bitch like this.”
Durell swung at Hackett again.
He was stronger now, and he felt the jarring impact of his knuckles on Hackett’s mouth. Hackett crashed back against a tree, pushed away, and came at him. His eyes were pale, pleased crescents as he hit Durell in the stomach, face, and groin. Durell doubled forward and heard Jones’s quick rebuke, but he knew that Hackett would not stop now. He struck back when he could, but Hackett did what he wanted with him.
chapter FIVE
HE was in a room in Washington, but he did not know where the room was, or the name of the street, or the quarter of the town he was in. The room told him nothing. It was a square cubicle with bare plaster walls and a set of government-issue office furnishings in oak: desk, armchair, swivel chair, two waiting chairs. Nothing on the walls. Tightly drawn green shades. A goose-neck lamp splashed light on the desk and into his eyes.
He was alone with Jones.
Jones said, fighting a cigarette, “What made you do it, Durell?”
“Maybe I was bored.”
“Was it money?”
“I like money."
“A woman?”
“I like women.”
“Do you like the Commies, too?”
Durell laughed, although it hurt his face.
Jones dragged at the cigarette. He was essentially a nice guy, Durell thought, one who was deeply disturbed, anxious, and upset about the apparent defection of a highly trusted agent.
Assignment - Treason Page 4
