A grin. “Possibly.”
“And does he know what you’re doing?”
“Maybe.”
“Is the girl dead?”
“She’s only stubborn."
Durell said, “I’m going to kill you, Hackett.”
They looked long at each other. Hackett started to laugh, then the sound faded. There was a momentary glimmer of uncertainty in his dark eyes. A bafflement, a struggle to understand. He looked away.
“The file, Durell?”
“Let me talk to Quenton.”
“You don’t talk to anyone but me. You don’t eat, sleep, or drink until you talk. Understand?"
“Why is it so important?” Durell asked.
Hackett pulled a chair from the wall and sat down. “It’s not the file anymore. It’s you. Who are you, what you are. You’re not in pattern, Durell. You came here looking for something. What is it? Dope on Quenton, or me? You’re tagged as a rat, a traitor; but I’m beginning to wonder. I’ve offered you a deal, a free trip to Europe, a hop, skip, and jump over the Curtain to your friends. But you won’t dicker. You won’t trade. So what do you want? I could turn you over to the federal cops, and they want you bad, believe me. But maybe it’s all a phony set-up. I want to know what you’re after. I know the facts, all that’s on the surface. And on the basis of those facts, you ought to jump at any deal we offer you. Why don’t you jump, Durell?”
“Maybe your price isn’t high enough.”
“What more do you want?”
“A talk with Quenton.”
“That’s not possible.”
“You can make it possible. Are you afraid of it, Hackett? Can’t you admit failure? Quenton thinks of you as his good right hand, the man who never makes mistakes. And you can’t afford to make mistakes, because if you do, you’re out. You‘re dead.”
“I like what I’ve got here, ” Hackett admitted. “I like what I'm going to get.”
“Do I threaten any of that?”
“You puzzle me.”
“Let me talk to Quenton,” Durell said.
It was dark again.
It was silent.
He stared into the darkness and listened to the silence. Somewhere across the wide sea, in a strange city in a strange land, a man known only as Antonio waited to kill, waited with death in his heart, because his woman had been taken from him. One death, the death of a nervous man—and who knew where the ripples would end? Humanity Walked on a tightrope these days, balanced precariously between doom and hope. The death of one man in power could create a breeze, a little wind, that might upset humanity’s balance and plunge all mankind into a pit of savagery. Who could know and who could say What might happen, if this were done or not done? There was evil around him, and treachery like a cancerous growth dimly seen through darkness. He saw a pattern, still formless and still indistinct, ahead of him down the path of treachery and deceit he had chosen to tread.
Alone in the darkness, Durell weighed success against failure, his gains against his mistakes. Hackett suspected him. Hackett sensed in him a flawed image other than the one he had hoped to present. It could not be helped. He had played a part and gained this doorway, but Corinne had also led him down other ways, and because of this, Hackett was close to learning the truth about him.
But what did Hackett want? The file. And where was it? Durell did not have it. Corinne did not have it. Certainly not the Gibneys. Who, then? If not Hackett, who?
He did not know.
Excitement suddenly grew in him. An answer was here, before him. He reached for it, grabbed at nothing, held emptiness in his hands and stared at it blankly.
Where was the file?
Who had it?
No one had it.
His mind lunged at the thought, checked, went at it again. Hackett could not admit failure. Failure meant destruction, abandonment by Quenton, who tolerated only success. Yet Durell had assumed Hackett had the file and was playing a game for private, obscure purposes. But the truth might be astonishingly simple.
No one had the file.
His mind jumped back to the first night, when he had lost it. Careful, now. Hackett and his two thugs had sprung the trap Corinne had led him into. He held no resentment against Corinne for this now. Forget Corinne. Later, Hackett had returned with Jones, the M.I. man. Why? Why, if he had already got the file in the first attempt?
Hackett didn’t have it. Corinne didn’t have it.
Durell lay still, pain forgotten, darkness pushed aside.
He remembered his awakening beside the dark stream, his torn pocket, his torn clothes. The torn pocket. And falling down that dark, scrubby slope of the ravine, landing at the bottom beside the chuckling creek. A torn pocket, a missing envelope that made the difference between honor and disgrace, between life and death.
His laughter was utterly silent, without mirth.
And Hackett came in again.
chapter FOURTEEN
HE LOOKED AT HACKETT differently and Hackett saw the difference and said, “What is it?”
“Tell me the time,” Durell said.
“After ten. Why?”
“Does it look like rain?”
Hackett’s thin face was puzzled. “Don’t give me that. Your brain isn’t addled.” He jerked his head and a man came into the room with a knife that glimmered in the faint light of a lamp outside. Durell’s nerves tightened. The man came over to the couch where he was tied and sliced quickly and efficiently through Durell‘s bonds.
“Can you stand up?" Hackett asked.
Durell tried. Hot needles plunged in and out of his arms and legs. The pain made him sweat. He clung to the couch, straightened, took a step, went down on one knee, straightened again. He stood swaying, drawing in deep breaths of air. He could not hear the surf outside the window of the little room. Hackett signaled to his helper again and the man took a glass of water and handed it to Durell. Durell rinsed his puffy mouth, spat on the floor, rinsed again, drank some, fought against the gritty thirst in his throat. The floor heaved under him, then slowly steadied. He looked at Hackett.
“How come?”
“Quenton thinks you may have the wrong idea about us. Maybe that’s what makes you so goddamn stubborn."
“All right. Let‘s go.”
Nobody offered to help. Walking was agony for the first few steps. Hackett led the way. The guard followed. They went down a long corridor into a sun room that was all glass on three sides, facing the sea, with a fieldstone wall on the fourth side enclosing an enormous stone fireplace. Over the fireplace was a huge pair of polished steer’s horns, mounted above two crossed Mexican rifles ornately inlaid with silver. A heavily carved mahogany table was set with food and crystal decanters of wine. There was a flag of Texas, ripped and battled-stained, over a gun case to the left of the fireplace. It was a robust room, a man’s room, strong and comfortable.
A high, thin voice said, “Come in, come in! So this is Durell?”
“Here he is,” Hackett said.
A whip cracked and tapped against a polished leather boot. One long, skinny leg crossed another, straightened, flexed. The whip snapped against leather again. Durell looked at Hereward Quenton.
A small round head, face wrinkled and seamed like leather left out in the sun and wind too long. A halo of white hair above a pinched brow that looked as if it had been squeezed into permanent furrows at birth. A petty mouth, a beak of a nose that shone white against the sunken cheeks, and watery eyes of so light a blue as to seem almost all white. Around the skinny, bony hips sagged a gun belt and a holstered, pearl-handled .44 Frontiersman that looked much too heavy for the clawlike hands to lift. There was a smell of old age in the room that neither the sea nor the polish of expensive furniture could dispel.
The watery eyes squinted. Teeth clicked loosely. “What happened to you, Durell?”
“I’ve been beaten, punched, kicked. You name it, Hackett did it.”
“Amos, I told you those methods were entirely unnec
essary!"
“He’s stubborn, Senator.”
“You mean he is intelligent. An intelligent man who is also a strong man cannot be handled like a thug. You’re a fool, Amos.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sit down, Durell.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“You want some medical attention?”
“No, thanks.”
“Food? Did Amos starve you, too?”
“It can wait.”
The little man was no more than five feet tall. He looked ludicrous with the gun belt sagging from his skinny, skeletal hips. But Durell was not amused. He did not like the look in Quenton’s eyes. They were eyes accustomed to watch men jump in obedience, pettish and querulous senile eyes that had seen too much and yet lusted to see more, hugging sensation and life as a miser hoards gold. Long ago, Durell had seen eyes like that in the faces of war criminals he had hunted down in the ruins of Cologne with Lew Osbourn. Spurs jingled as Quenton walked to the tall windows and faced the dark sea.
“Our difficulty seems to be that Hackett kept you in the dark about us,” Quenton said. “Amos does not like reason. He prefers force, which has its advantages and is necessary in most instances. But he does not understand a man li.ke you, Durell. I do, you see. I must apologize for the treatment you received in my house."
Durell laughed. His face hurt. “Were you just too squeamish to watch, Senator?"
Quenton’s false teeth glistened evenly. “I’ve seen things that would make you sick for days, young feller. I’ve done things you'd puke over. It’s always been my rule that when matters come to a fight, there just ain’t no rules. You gouge out eyes, you castrate your enemies, you kill ’em sure, and then there’s nothing left to trouble you. You were treated pretty good. Amos doesn't know the fine points of askin’ a man questions. There were Indians in my day, Apaches who raided in East Texas. There were no rules. I killed ’em off whenever I caught a band of ’em*braves, squaws, infants down to babes in arms. So there weren’t any left.”
“And that‘s the way you‘ve survived since?" Durell asked.
“The rules haven’t changed. Only their application. But not the kill-or-be-killed rule.”
“I’m glad they ran you out of Washington at the last election, Senator.”
“I don‘t take offense. Because, you see, I'm back, my boy.”
“Not for long, I’m sure.”
A cackle came from the dry, wrinkled mouth. Quenton’s clawlike hand whipped with incredible speed, freeing his .44 from its holster, leveling it at Durell. The muzzle looked black and deadly, pointed between Durell‘s eyes. “Who would miss you, boy, if I killed you now?"
“Probably no one.”
“Then you’re knocking on death’s door.”
“Go ahead,” Durell said. “Shoot.”
Quenton cackled. “By God. By God, no wonder Amos didn‘t get nowhere with you. I like you, boy."
“I think you stink,” Durell said. “You’re a rotten, sadistic, treacherous snake of an old man."
Quenton’s skinny finger squeezed the trigger. The shot was thunderous in the big room. Durell felt a thunderclap in his right ear. He knew he had jerked his head instinctively to the side, and he saw the pleased reaction on the wizened old face. The bullet had chunked into the paneling over the fireplace. Durell rubbed his ear Where he felt a burning sensation. His fingertip was lightly smeared with blood.
“Be careful how you talk next time,” Quenton said.
“I retract nothing.”
“Sit down, boy. I think we can come to terms. You hate my guts, but you don’t know what I’m after and What I’m going to get. Amos, give the man a sandwich. He must be hungry. And give him some of that there special bourbon. It’s fine stuff. One of the few things they make in this fancy, ladylike state is good bourbon.”
“I haven’t anything to sell you,” Durell said. “Nothing you can bargain for.”
“Yes, you have, boy. You can sell yourself. You’re going to belong to me or you’re going to die. It‘s simple, hey? If I killed you now, I‘d be a hero in the nation’s press tomorrow morning. I might have to kill you anyway, since Amos kept you here and made me an accomplice in aiding a fugitive from federal justice. That‘s a serious thing. It could do me some hurt. Hackett is going to pay for that mistake, too.”
“Senator-”
“Shut up and listen. Now, Durell, tell me what you think of me—and don’t waste time cussin’ me out because you got a few aches and pains. Why do you think I brought you here when you busted away from that loyalty board yesterday? You think this place is a nest of spies? You think I’m the ringleader in a nasty sedition plot, is that it?”
“Perhaps.”
“But there ain‘t a man loves this country more than me. There ain’t a man tryin’ harder and spending more money to keep it safe and strong, to make it the greatest, most wonderful empire God graced this old world with. America is God’s gift to a sick and hungry planet, and the devil himself can’t keep us from ruling them atheistic savages on the other side. Maybe we got to play ball and talk polite to the nigras and dagoes and Chinks over in Africa and Asia. But not for long. We’re too strong, boy. Stronger than they know! We can lick anybody. We can take ‘em all on and show ‘em what we can do. And that’s what we’re going to do, too! Bomb ’em off the face of the earth! Wipe ‘em out, clean things up, once and for all.”
“Like the Indian bands long ago? Men, women, babes in arms?”
“They ain’t people. They're savages. They’re inferior." Quenton thrust his round head forward on his pipestem neck. “You ain’t full of that idealistic crap about the equality of the human races, are you, boy? You got more sense than that. Any fool knows a white American is worth ten foreigners, any time. Seems to me we’ve taken enough of their lip and talked too soft to ’em for too long. Use the bombs, I say. Wipe ‘em out. Make the world clean and safe for democracy.”
“Texas style?” Durell asked softly.
“I don’t like your tone, boy. I mean that."
“I think you’re crazy. Do you want an atomic war?”
“It’s the only answer to all our troubles.”
“And you think America would win?”
“Hell, we couldn’t miss. We’ve never been licked yet.”
“But a lot of people would get killed.”
“Hell, there’ll just be that much more room for those left.”
“I mean American people. In American cities."
“A lot of foreigners live in our cities. It’ll be a good laxative for this country, boy, if some of these cities get wiped out, too."
Durell looked sidewise at Hackett. There was nothing he could read in the other’s dark face. He felt incredulous. There was a ring of fanatic fervor in the old man’s words. He believed what he was saying. He was fighting to bring about a holocaust that he honestly felt to be desirable. Something moved in the back of Durell’s mind, a memory of words that Dickinson McFee had once spoken. It was as if some missing part of a puzzle had suddenly clicked into place, and a pattern leaped in bloody, dangerous outline into full focus. There were gaps here and there, as if the design were still incomplete, But there was enough to lift excitement in him, enough to make him forget the ugly hours behind him.
“I’m beginning to understand,” Durell said slowly.
“Then can you guess why you’re here?”
“I think so.”
“You’re a criminal. You’re a curse to our nation. You were willing to sell our secrets for a handful of gold. Could I buy you back?"
“Maybe. But you don’t want to,” Durell said.
The watery old eyes glistened with reptilian delight. “Yep. Yep. I think you got it. You’re intelligent, which Amos didn’t understand. You know what I’m after. You’re tough, and you’ve made mistakes, and you betrayed this country, but I ain’t one to hold a man’s mistakes against him forever, specially when he’s willing to help me get what I want. You know what
I want, don’t you? You know it now?”
“Yes,” Durell said quietly. “You want war."
The room was silent. The old man bolstered his pearl-handled gun. Durell sat down. Hackett stood like a slat of darkness beside the door. There was no other sound from anywhere in the big, rambling house. Inside the room, a rococo clock ticked busily. It was just ten. A tiny golden bell chimed the hour.
“You’re looking for an international incident,” Durell said.
“We’ve got to be in the right, boy. We’ve got to make it look as if they started it.”
“You know about Antonio, that Rumanian in Budapest?”
“That’s his code name. Yep.”
“And you know he’s bent on assassination?”
Quenton chuckled. “Let’s hope he makes it.”
“And if they learn that Antonio is—or was—on our payroll, then the war you want might begin.”
“Right.”
“So you want the file I took from K Section that identifies him."
“Right.”
“You’ll help me evade the law and my punishment for treason if I get it for you?”
“We can make a deal. You want money, I've got money for you. You want a. safe place to hide, I can put you there. Maybe you plan to sell them people your stuff, anyhow. That’s Why you took it, I reckon. But I can’t count on you doing the job right. It will be better if my outfit handles it. Seems fair enough to me."
“You‘ve done this before,” Durell said. “In the name of your conception of patriotism.”
“It’s the only true patriotism, boy. We’re through talking about it. We’re down to business now. You got the file with that man’s real name on it. I want it. You’re going to give it to me.”
“And if I don’t?”
Quenton grinned. There was something wrong about his pale eyes, in the death’s-head grimace of his weathered face. Something did not ring quite true. This old man, with his zeal and fanaticism, with the money of a Croesus to enforce his demands, had recited his aims with a certain glibness, as if the words were memorized, implanted in him from other sources. Durell shot a. glance at Amos Hackett. The tall man stood with his face narrow against the lamplight. Nothing to he read there. Was it Hackett‘s brain and Hackett’s words echoing in that toothless, childish old mouth? Durell wondered. If not Hackett, then who?
Assignment - Treason Page 12
