Assignment Tokyo
Page 19
Durell flattened against the wall in the deeper shadows behind the swinging launch. His shoulder grazed a switch, and his fingers stole along the electric cable until he found the button. He punched it, and drove again to where Po was trying to get around the other side of the opening in the floor. An electric motor whined, and the opposite launch slowly lowered itself toward the surging water. The sudden mechanical movement took Po by surprise. He ducked back to avoid the descending boat, and in doing so, slipped on the wet planking. His gun went off again, firing through the shed roof. This time Durell was sure of his direction. He dived forward, slammed into the man’s muscular, twisting body, and grabbed for Po’s wrist. Po grunted and again tried to scramble out from under the lowering boat. Durell felt a jolt in his ribs, another in his belly. He almost lost his grip on Po’s gun. They both reeled across the floor toward the edge of the launching pit. Something rasped across Durell’s naked back. It was the descending bow of the motorboat, coming down at an angle across the planks. Summoning the last of his strength, he threw Po backward, twisting the Chinese around so that Po’s back was again to the boat. The man understood his danger. But he was intent on freeing his gun. Durell’s wet arms did not afford Po a grip. Durell’s fingers slid along the barrel of Po’s gun and closed on the trigger grip.
“Where is she?” Durell gasped.
“Dead . . .”
“You lie!”
“Dead,” Po repeated. “I killed her. Why not?”
They were face to face in the gloom, straining to get out from under the descending weight of the boat. Durell brought his knee up, wrenched at the gun, and found Po’s strength adamant.
“You will die,” the Chinese whispered. “Like your girl. I knew she would bring you to me. I waited. I could not go back to Peking as a failure.”
“You were foolish to wait around,” Durell whispered. His strength was ebbing. The swim in the icy lake had taken its toll. His left leg trembled as muscles and nerves began to rebel. Somehow, he summoned the last of his reserves. It didn’t matter about Po’s gun. Gathering himself, he flexed his knees, then came up, lifting Po bodily backward. There was a thud, a sudden screech, and the shape of the boat’s bow fell the final length of its cable. The Chinese was dragged backward by the heavy weight of the launch, and finally pinned under the keel as the boat thumped on the planks next to the watery opening. The launch was not properly balanced. The weight of the engine aft dragged it over the edge of the stringer, and the keel sliced across Po’s torso, pulling the Chinese with it. Again there was a long, shocked scream, a tremendous splash as the boat hit the water stern-first, grinding its keel across Po’s body and the unyielding mahogany stringer. It was like being caught on a giant chopping block.
Icy water drenched Durell as he sank slowly to his knees on the edge of the pit. The boat sank, bubbling and seething, to the frozen mud in the bottom of the long shed. For an endless minute Durell could do nothing but keep his agonized lungs pumping, his heart within his rib cage. He had come to the end of his endurance.
For a time there were bubbles and noises, echoing grotesquely, from the boat under the water.
Then silence slowly returned.
A light flickered from far away, touching the window. He heard distant yells. The shots had attracted someone’s attention. But Durell paid no heed.
“Deirdre?” he whispered. His voice was not like his own voice. “Dee . . .?”
He tried to get up and could not. He tried again, fell, picked himself up, and slowly, clinging to the wall, he made his way into the darkness of the other end of the shed.
“Deirdre?” he whispered again.
She was there, a dim huddle of arms and legs, the curve of a hip, the faint oval of her face upturned to him. There was a bandage over the lower part of her face, ropes on her arms and legs. His fingers could not work the knots. He staggered back to find his knife, gave an exhalation of gratitude, and made his way back to her.
Her eyes were open. He cut the ropes and gently straightened her limbs. Her eyes kept staring into his. He took off the gag that covered her mouth.
There was a pounding on the main door of the shed, a shrill whistle from one of the police. Lights suddenly flashed and poured through the shed windows.
“Are you all right, Deirdre?” he whispered.
“Just fine.” Her voice was calm. “What took you so long?” The light shone on Durell’s naked, bloody body, and a wan smile touched her fine, bruised mouth. She added gently, “I must say, Galahad, you do things most informally.”
30
ONCE again he slept, awoke, and slept again. He was aware of being in a car with Dr. Freeling, Major Yamatoya, and Deirdre. The night air felt cool and refreshing. There was a time when, under a glaring surgical light, someone who was masked and gowned
bathed him, and tended to the wounds, cuts, and splinters all over his body. He was given bourbon when he began to shake beyond control, and he awakened long enough to swallow it gratefully, feeling its warmth in his belly. Then he fell asleep again.
He was awakened and made to walk down a street, up some steps, and into a Japanese house, where he was put to bed by comforting, soothing hands.
Someone said: “Is it the fever?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Yes.”
He ached his way through nightmares, a journey of torment. Time passed in great, surging waves that drowned and smothered him. Voices echoed in the aching vault of his brain. He felt needles in his arm, cool bandages on his fevered forehead. He could bear nothing touching his body. He could not swallow; sometimes, he felt as if he could not draw another breath.
“Will he be all right?”
“We’ll see.”
“But the serum—”
“It takes time.”
He loved Deirdre with an all-consuming love. He wanted her, and she was not there. He ran down a dark tunnel, and at the end of it Po waited in a kind of Chinese medieval torture chamber. Po smiled and said, “You killed me quickly, Durell. Now it is my turn. Welcome to my private hell.”
Sometimes he knew they were dreams. At other times, they were terrifying realities. He longed for the cool reaches of Chesapeake Bay, the ducks in the reeds, the bellying white sails across the blue water. Deirdre’s pink brick home was a safe harbor after a treacherous voyage. “Dr. Freeling?”
“Sam is fine. Wake him up.”
Durell opened his eyes. He was aware of warm and smooth curves beside him—perfume, silken skin, silken black hair on the pillow next to his.
Deirdre leaned on one elbow and smiled down at him. She shared his bed. He looked around the room and knew he was in his own place in Tokyo. It was dusk. He did not know how long he had struggled through his fever. He ached, but it wasn’t too bad. He looked at his familiar Japanese furniture, at the evening light, at the red glow of the maple tree in the garden beyond the windows. He looked at Deirdre.
“Hi.”
“Yo. The reluctant lover,” she said, and smiled.
“How are you?”
“Never better. Ready, willing, and able.”
“And Bill?”
“Back at work. He’s holding down the office for the next week or so. Nothing for you and me to do, meanwhile, but you-know-what. And I’m impatient.”
He grinned. He had a week-old beard. When he kissed her, his face rasped against hers. She did not complain.
“The plague?”
“Under control. No more deaths for the past three days. Dr. Freeling has performed a miracle out of Yoko’s blood. The mutated virus hasn’t got a chance.”
“And Yoko?”
“She’s with Bill. Where else would she be?”
“Po?”
“Major Yamatoya dragged the lake for his body. It took two days, but he found it.” Deirdre laughed and kissed him again. Her body moved against him and over him like warm silk. “Why are we talking about such unimportant things now, Sam? We have a full week. You’ve
recovered. No more problems—until my boss, Dickinson McFee, dreams up another for you. But that’s over a week away.”
“I’m hungry,” Durell said.
“That’s fine. That’s a good sign. Later.”
He yawned. He watched the light shine through the red maple tree. The air that blew through the window was soft and mild. A bird sang. He heard his Japanese neighbors down the street.
“Sam?”
“Umm-hum.”
“I’m here, Sam!”
“Yes, darling.”
He yawned again, and fell asleep.
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