Assignment Golden Girl

by Edward S. Aarons

  "Who? About what?"

  "Please come. I think they're going to—^well, I'm really scared, Sam. Help me!"

  "Where are you?"

  "On the Hill. I went to the Casino, but it's awful there. The Europeans and South Africans expect a massacre. So I got out. Out of the frying pan, Uterally."

  "Then where are you on the Hill?"

  She gave him directions. Her words tumbled out too fast, and her breathing fluttered with fright. He was to

  take the Casino road, then turn left toward the former Government House. She would be waiting at the gate there.

  "Sally, I'm busy."

  He heard her draw a deep breath. "I think you know I'm not what I said. I can teU you all about your precious Prince Tim. You're making an awful mistake about Atimboku, believe me. I'll really level with you, Sam. Just hurry, please. Otherwise, I'll be stone cold dead."

  "Is Atimboku after you? Is that why you hid with me?"

  There was another long pause. "He wants to kill me. He has to get rid of me before he gets out of the country with you."

  Seven

  WHEN you have been in the business long enough, you take nothing for granted. It is not a business where Galahad is rewarded with the fair maiden's favors after slaying the dragon. You are trained to consider calls for help with the greatest suspicion. You trust no one, neither the maiden nor the dragon. Sometimes the dragon even turns out to be a friend. You proceed on the rule that both your superiors and your friends and allies have double and triple motives in their speech and acts; to do otherwise is to invite a stupid and mocking death.

  Durell checked his gun and stepped out of the shack and walked through the heat to the enginehouse and the repair sheds across the yards.

  Harvey had apparently gotten himself in hand. There were two dozen men gathered there already, several working at the donkey engine, the others being handed axes and saws and piling into a truck headed for the eucalyptus woods. Guards now stood about the antique locomotive, watching the railroad workers gather oil cans and tools. A winch screeched, motivated by brute manpower. A fire had been started in one of the forges. Hammers rang on rusty steel. Harvey was in the engine cab, stripped to the waist, dismantling the gauges.

  He looked different. The sudden activity had shaken him out of his despair. His eyes grinned through his smudged glasses as Durell called to him through the thunderous noise.

  "Yo!"

  "I need a jeep," Durell said.

  Harvey said, "I don't think we'll make it, Sam, but we'll have a try, right? Old 79 isn't as bad as I thought she was."

  "A jeep," Durell repeated.

  "What? Sure. Take mine over there."

  "Tell these triggermen not to shoot me, will you?"

  Harvey grinned again. "Right."

  There was a brief exchange in Banda, and Durell walked to the jeep parked in the shade of the enginehouse. Even though the vehicle was not in the direct sunlight, the wheel was almost too hot to touch. The keys were in the ignition. He started up and jounced out of the rail yard.

  Smoke stained the blue sky beyond the valley where Pakuru sprawled. In the city itself some order had been restored since the morning's bombing. Bicycles swarmed over the bridge between the native city and the section built by Europeans in past decades. Except for the plentiful evidence of Colonel Abdundi's armed men, Pakuru seemed at ease. It was a kind of self hypnosis that ignored the ominous pall of smoke to the north that indicated the approach of the Neighbors' forces and the PLM guerrillas.

  Traffic eased as Durell turned the jeep onto the new concrete road that led up the Hill toward the distant Casino. There were cracks in the highway already, and quick sawgrass had begun to sprout, eager to take advantage of neglect. Beyond the valley none of the roads were open or safe to the outer world. Enemy roadblocks, blown bridges, and booby traps made any vehicular operation beyond ten miles from the city a matter of sure suicide.

  The Casino loomed on the crest of the Hill, a gleaming white cube fringed with green palms and flowering shrubs. Halfway there a smaller road diverged to the right over the flank of the mountain. Durell turned the jeep that way into a tunnel of trees. The Governor's House had been abandoned in the enthusiasm of Independence Day when the Pakuru insisted on centralizing the administration down along the riverside. The building, in any case, served to remind them of colonialism, and Durell was surprised that it had not yet been torn down.

  In the two years since independence the jungle along the secondary road had grown back much more than on the main road. Vines and creepers brushed the jeep as Durell took the once manicured drive deeper into the overgrowth. The sunlight was reduced to a dim flicker between the leafy branches high overhead. He watched for mines and trip wires. The cracked and weedy drive seemed safe enough. Birds called, and he saw the quick flash of a honey hunter in the foliage.

  At the entrance the stone pillars with their emblems of the British Empire were impressive even now, although the iron fence and gate had long since been removed. The driveway swept in a wide circle over former lawns and flower beds that had yielded to the African bush and waist-high grasses. From here the valley below was clearly visible with the town steaming along the sluggish riverfront. Durell stopped the jeep beside the gatehouse.

  No one was in sight. A dusty Land Rover was parked behind the white stone cottage that had once been the guardhouse for imperialism. The door to the cottage stood open, but the shadows were too deep to see inside. Birds chattered in the nearby trees, and a hot wind bent the tall grass. Durell sat in the jeep for a moment, then suddenly jumped for the cottage wall, took out his gun, and held it in his left hand.

  Nothing happened.

  He moved again, slowly and without sound, feeling his way around to the shaded side of the cottage. There were two small windows, barred against vandals. Wooden sun blinds were also shut, their painted slats peeling. Something flapped on the front seat of the dusty Land Rover parked there. It was a brightly colored woman's scarf. Sally Hukkim had worn it.

  "Sally?" he called softly.

  No one stirred. Insects bit and stung his flesh. He moved around to the front door again. No trip wires were visible. Without warning he plunged into the shadows of the dark opening.

  He knew what was going to happen. He was ready for it, almost welcomed it in the hope it would bring fact out of uncertainty. He saw movement to his left— he was expected to have his gun in his right hand—and something crashed down at his head. He saw the shape of a man and another, taller figure but not too clearly. He let himself go down, taking the biggest risk of all, and out of the darkness came Sally's calm voice:

  "Don't kill him, love. Not yet."

  Eight

  SOMETHING in Sally's voice kept him from pulling the trigger. He could have put a bullet into the belly of his attacker from the gun hidden in his left hand, but instead he rammed the muzzle into the hard pressure of muscle against him and spoke quietly. "Back up, please."

  The uplifted arm froze over his head. "Oh, hell."

  "Exactly. Back up. You too, Sally."

  Carefully they both retreated. Durell stood up. His eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the empty cottage, and he saw there was no furniture in here, just the dust and grime of long disuse. The room was square with two small barred windows in the rear that let light filter through the overgrowth of vines and creepers. Sally stood in tall elegance, still wearing her native costmne with all its jangly bangles and bracelets. The dim sunlight glistened on the opulence of her necklaces and shining wristlets.

  The man with her looked innocuous enough. He was small and stout with a Japanese face. His belly made a little pumpkin under his khaki shorts and shirt. He had round knees and wore high black socks, and his khaki shirt was newly torn from when he had jumped Durell.

  Durell looked at him, dismissed him, and smiled at Sally. "I thought you were in such terrible trouble."

  "I was, Sam."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Well, some
body tried to kill me at the Casino. I don't know if it was the PLM's or one of Prince Atimboku's assassins."

  "Does Prince Tim keep hired killers around?"

  She looked grim. "He's killed some of my friends."

  "But why should he want to kill you?"

  She glanced at the stout little Japanese. "I—I don't know. I just don't, Sam. An5rway, I ran, and they were following me through the bush, but Lev—he's an old friend, you see, we've known each other, worked with each other for years—he came along and fortunately scared them off. This was after I'd already tried to reach you from the Casino. I felt trapped there. I really felt trapped. I thought I'd never get away. I was just dumb lucky. Lordie, I'm glad you're here, Sam."

  "I'm not so sure about that," Durell said.

  "Please. You can trust me, Sam."

  "Not out of my sight."

  He turned to consider the roly-poly Japanese. Aside from the awkward looking tourist shorts and chubby knees, the man had a round, partly bald head that showed fiftyish gray hair. His slightly slanted eyes were mild and innocent, and his mouth smiled in a rather cherubic fashion. He put aside the knob of hardwood with which he had tried to knock out Durell, and Durell felt his memory click.

  "Levemore Oyashi. You once worked for us."

  Oyashi smiled. "Quite possibly,"

  "A fact."

  "You are certain?"

  "You helped Tom August on the Yamati job. You're native American, Nisei, bom in Oakland, California, 1916. You began with G2 on Saipan, World War II, came to K Section in 1964. We never met, bue I've seen your dossier in the basement at No. 20 Annapolis Street. You did some other odd jobs with Hannigan out of Singapore and some part-time work in Hawaii with the Fire Storm branch. You're older than the picture we have of you. You left K Section to become a free-lance agent—^for the Deuxieme Bureau in Paris, some mysterious oil company job in Libya, the Rumanian Green Force, and even the Israeli Shin Bet outfit. Your code name there was Jeremiah, your signal Aleph Yod. Israeli Intelligence number 5-AY-2. Are you working here, Oyashi?"

  "You do have excellent recall." Oyashi looked amused. "Wonderful mnemonic training K Section gives you."

  "Answer my question. Are you working in Pakuru?"

  "I've retired. Can you believe it?" Oyashi's smile became a bit sad. "I'm diabetic. How can an intelligence agent operate when he needs insulin shots every morning? It got ridiculous. So I farmed myself out—literally."

  "You were pretty good in your time. We were sorry to lose you, Oyashi."

  The Japanese made a deprecating gesture. "It was long ago. All forgotten. I'm a peaceful farmer now."

  "In Pakuru?"

  Oyashi grined. "I ran a pig farm in Jersey for two years. Exclusive Sunnyside bacon and ham for Happy Day Supermarkets. I like animals. I like growing things.

  Didn't the dossier you read state that I have a degree in agronomy?"

  Durell was conscious of the wind in the tall weeds outside. Birds squawked in the flame trees. He looked at Sally's lovely golden, slightly Mongolian face. "And how did you and Lev Oyashi get to be such good friends, Sally?"

  "I lived for a time in the same kibbutz in Israel, a place called Kar Hdem. Lev was working there, too. I wanted to learn how it was done—turning wasteland and desert into farms and forests, I mean. Lev and I became friends there. I was just a youngster then. He was like a father to me."

  Oyashi said, "I should explain that after I became dependent on insulin, I retired to an agricultural station in southeast Pakuru. I came up to town just before the trouble with the Neighbors broke out and haven't been able to get back. The Ngamis—the tribesmen I'm teaching farming to —will be missing me."

  Durell turned to Sally. "When you were at the Israeli kibbutz, was it on an assignment for Toward Sunshine?"

  Her rich mouth quirked. "I wasn't working for them then. I did it to try to help my people, just as Lev is doing."

  "You're really a Pakuru?"

  "Of course."

  Durell said: "I know who you really are, Sally."

  "Well, don't tell anyone," she smiled.

  "Prince Tim will call you a spy."

  She said seriously: "Aren't we all?"

  He looked at the odd pair—the gentle, middle-aged Japanese and the gorgeous, barbaric girl.

  "You'd better come with me," he said.

  Nine

  THINGS had changed at the railway yards. It was past two in the afternoon, and a cordon of militia stood around the area with a few jeeps and one rusted, armored car that Colonel Abdundi had salvaged from somewhere. Work gangs labored at repairing the torn-up yard switches. Other gangs brought cordwood in trucks and stacked it in one of the coaches which had been stripped of its seats and other amenities. The donkey engine huffed and chuffed, and the overhead cranes and winches swung back and forth, hauling steel parts for Old 79, which seemed to be sitting back like some stubborn, prehistoric monster determined not to be annoyed by the ants swarming over it. A group of half-naked black men sweated at the forge, which spat flames into the overheated air and added to the impression of hellish bedlam.

  Sally said, "I just want to sneak in and hide somewhere if you don't mind, Sam."

  "Do you mean you want to make the run with us?" Durell asked.

  "I have to. I must! If you'll take me."

  "Prince Tim will be alone. That's the object of the whole thing—to get him out and to the UN. And you say he wants to eliminate you. We have six hundred miles to go—if we ever get started—and you'll be on the train with Atimboku."

  "I'll be all right with Lev if I can stay out of Tim's sight."

  Durell shrugged. "It's your neck. Use that shack over there for now."

  They were grudgingly admitted to the yards by the armed militia. Sally and Oyashi went into the watchman's shanty where Durell had used the telephone. Durell looked for Gloria and found her in the plush, paneled coach reserved for the few passengers who would join in the attempt to escape from Pakuru. Above the clamor of the forge and the hammering on steel, he heard the dull crump of a mortar far in the northern distance. It only served to accent the fact that their time was rapidly running out.

  Gloria sprawled on the plush red seat of a private compartment in the passenger coach. Her long blond hair hid part of her face as she bent intently at the task of painting her toenails. The steamy heat did not seem to bother her, but there was a faint flush on her pouting cheeks. Inside the coach, men in ragged shirts and women in bright cotton wraps worked at boarding up the glass windows and cutting gun ports in them. Durell did not know whose idea that was. The engine, Old 79, had been moved—probably with winches—and stood on jacks to support her ancient 175-ton weight while a new pilot wheel was fitted. The passenger carriage was paneled in fruitwood, upholstered in green leather, gilt lettered to proclaim the Pakuru National Railway, the script all Edwardian curlicues and exaggerated serifs. The clamor of workmen inside the engine shed did not drown out three more mortar explosions in the far distance. Some of the workmen looked up nervously but did not stop their labor when the soldiers menaced them with their Kalashnikov rifles.

  Gloria smiled, showing even white teeth. "Hi. I wondered where you got to in this madhouse."

  "You seem calm enough," Durell said.

  "Well, I'm really all butterflies inside. Harvey was looking for you, by the way. He's in seventh heaven, the poor fool, playing with a real locomotive again. Like a kid."

  "Why does that make him a fool?"

  She smoothed her long hair and pointed her pedicure file at him. "Well, you know how it is with us, I'm sure."

  "Does Atimboku bother you?" Durell asked.

  She regarded him steadily. "He's quite a man, that Prince Tim. Yes, he bothers me. You know where."

  "Be careful, Mrs. Gladstone."

  "My, you're such a formal man. But I couldn't care less about being careful. You hear those explosions? They say the Neighbors will be in Pakuruville by tomorrow morning."

  "Well, we won'
t be here. We'll be gone by then."

  Gloria was dubious. "Can Harvey do it?"

  "Harvey must do it, or we'll all be dead."

  "Pooh," Gloria said. "A lot of the refugees up at the Casino—the Europeans and South Africans—got wind of this train." She looked up at him with sly eyes. "They all want to get aboard. Prince Tim is allowing a dozen or more to come along. Some journalists, mainly, to back up the story he wants to sell to the United Nations. They'll all be here tonight." She chuckled and waved her long nailfile again. "This trip will be just a ball, a lot of fun and games with all of us jammed in here."

  Durell felt annoyed with the big blonde. "Do something for me, will you? Just don't upset Harvey with talk like that right now. He's the only man who can get this train going again."

  "Harvey will never make it. He's weak."

  "Well, don't make things worse, right?"

  Gloria unflexed her knees and sat up on the green leather seat. "Listen, I'm sick and tired of catering to Harvey. I've got my own ideas about the future. A girl has to look out for herself in this part of the world."

  Durell grinned. "Do you have any ideas of becoming the Queen Elephant of Pakuru?"

  She was not offended. She said blandly, "Why not? Atimboku likes me. I can tell. The way he looks at me, I know what he's thinking. Anyway, there are a couple of other big shot Africans who've married white wives. Like that Sir Somebody-or-Other in Grotwanna. An English girl married him. I read about it in a movie magazine. She's living high on the hog, all right. So why not the same for little Gloria?"

  "The first thing," Durell said softly, "is for all of us to get out of here alive. In order to do that you must not upset Harvey, understand?"

  "Fine," she said absently. "He can play with his little train all he likes."

  Harvey's face was smeared with grease and oil, but his eyes gleamed happily. "Hello, Cajun. What's up?"

  "Come down out of there for a minute, will you?"

  Harvey climbed down from the wooden cab. Some cordwood had already been stacked in the tender. His gauges and dials lay in a careful arrangement on the steel-plated deck, and a pile of rags and a long-nozzled engineer's oil can were gripped in his hands. The boiler door had been removed, and there was a muffled hammering and scraping from inside the bowels of the engine.