Assignment Peking

by Edward S. Aarons

  "No, please " he breathed. "Not here! I've given you drawings, blueprints, I haven't finished the last one "

  "It was promised two weeks ago," Tai Ma said.

  The wretch was flung into a bare stone room off the main underground corridor. There was a desk, a naked light, a straw pallet in one corner. The naked Chinese shivered under the raw light. One of the Manchurians went out and returned at once with a long rack of what looked like surgical instruments—but they were of black iron, with suspicious-looking stains on the ends of skewers, knives, and pincers. Chien Y-Wu blanched and shrank back against the cold stone wall.

  "W-what do you want of me?" He was in a state of total shock. "I'll tell you all you need to know. I beg of you, don't hurt me. You treated me so well "

  "And you made a fool of me," Tai Ma said flatly. "You had wine and women, every luxury your depraved mind could imagine. Was I cruel to you then? Now you see the other side of the coin."

  "I cannot stand pain "

  "We shall see how much you can take, General."

  Durell leaned against the stone wall. The Manchurians no longer paid attention to him. He saw now that their jobs were those of torturers for the State. Tai Ma settled with a grunt behind his desk. All his attention was also focused on the trembling, pot-bellied victim. Durell tried to feel sympathy for the pathetic man, but it was difficult. This craven object of his mission, for whom his own life might be forfeited, had brought him to this place, and he doubted now that he would ever escape alive. His face was hard as he observed the torture preparations in the cell, and he said quietly, "What do you wish to learn from this man, Comrade Tai?"

  "First, we administer a lesson. The glorious Socialist State is not to be trifled with. Our goals are above mean and limited individuals. So we will teach our guest some of our good Socialist tenets. If he lives, he will then divulge all he has so carefully withheld from us."

  "But he came to you willingly."

  "We do not know if he is an honest defector. I think he was sent here deliberately. If so, he has been playing a much deeper game with me than it appears."

  "Who would send him?" Durell asked. "His record shows him to be weak, self-indulgent, a coward. What can you believe from a man like this?"

  "A man always speaks the truth under pain."

  "Not always."

  "You have not, perhaps, seen my methods, Shan."

  It was not easy to stand in silence while Chien was subjected to preliminary "questioning." However effective ancient Chinese torture methods might have been, Tai Ma had added modern psychiatric trimmings dredged from a twisted mind. A surgical table was brought in. No threats were made. Everything was done in cold, efficient silence. At first, Chien tried to endure what was done to his body, but slowly, inevitably, horror overwhelmed him.

  His first scream was ear-shattering.

  It went on and on, wrenched from his thin chest with astonishing power. Tai Ma lifted a finger and one of the torturers deftly gave the victim an injection. The screams slowly bubbled away. Chien began to sigh and weep.

  "I am not a man now," he whispered. "Let me go, I beg of you. I can finish the schematic sketches you want I can do it today. But if you hurt my hands too "

  Tai folded his fingers under his chin, his elbows resting on the desk. "Who sent you here, dog?"

  "I—I was never certain—of the ultimate command "

  "But it was not your idea? You were not the one who thought of your defection?"

  "No, no. I was forced to. I was accused of taking military funds—my tastes in living, you see "

  "Yes, we know them well. Tell us who sent you, then."

  "A wizard, a monster," Chien gasped. "A man devoted in his evil soul only to the use of nuclear weapons to impose an American peace on the whole world. I could not agree. China, Socialist or not, is my native land. I could not accept the deaths of hundreds of millions, through the plots of the Sentinels."

  "Ah," said Tai Ma. "The Six Sentinels?"

  Chien's ribbed chest rose and fell in rapid spasms. Saliva drooled from his slack mouth.

  Durell said, "Send your two men out."

  "I cannot do so," Tai Ma said quickly.

  "I command here," Durell said. "Chien is mine. What he now has to say must be kept in top security." He moved behind the fat man at the desk. "Do you understand?"

  Tai Ma sighed. "I thought we agreed "

  "Agreements are made to be broken, Comrade Tai."

  The two Manchurians looked at Durell with gleaming eyes. Their weapons had been put aside for their preliminary work on Chien's bloody body. The KMT man looked as if he were in utter shock, after being dragged from total luxury to deepest degradation. The nearest Manchurian, however, had a pair of heavy tongs in his fist, and how he lifted them in a slight movement. The heavy iron door of the cell was closed. Durell drew his gun.

  "Drop it," he snapped.

  The torturers hesitated. Between them, on the table, Chien groaned and writhed. His loins were bloody from the brief attentions he had already received. He did not look like a man who had long to live.

  Tai Ma sighed. "Do as Major Shan says, Comrades."

  The Manchurian dropped the iron tongs and stepped back. There was another, smaller door in the cell, less than half a man's height, and Durell swung it open and gestured them inside. The dark cubbyhole within was rancid with sweat and blood.

  "In there," Durell ordered.

  They crowded backward into the tiny cubbyhole. Their eyes gleamed like vicious animals as Durell slammed the small door shut on them and threw the bolt. He turned his gun back on Tai Ma. The fat man had not moved.

  "You are foolish, Shan—if that is your name. What do you propose to do with me? It is a matter of logistics, of my physical size. You cannot crowd me in with my assistants."

  Durell ignored him and went to the table. Chien Y-Wu's eyes were closed. His breathing was too fast, and the thud of his laboring heart was visible through his ribs. Bubbles of saliva oozed from his ashen lips.

  "General Chien?"

  "He has fainted," Tai Ma said blandly.

  But the victim's slanted eyelids fluttered, the shocked eyes looked up at the naked light bulb. Durell tapped the cord and made the light swing back and forth above the man's face. He made his voice gentle and suddenly spoke in English.

  "I am a friend, but I can't help you unless you decide to cooperate, Chien."

  "W-what? I don't—understand "

  "Just answer my questions."

  "Are you going to kill me?"

  "It depends."

  "I wish—I wish to live " The man began to weep.

  "Tell me about the Six Sentinels," Durell said.

  Tai Ma made a sighing sound. "You are not Shan, are you? I have been studying your face. I have considered Shan's dossiers. It is very, very good. Very clever. But you are not Shan."

  "Stand over there, Tai."

  The fat man moved silently to the wall, his ponderous body poised. Durell kept his gun ready. He heard a gong and the whisper of the air-conditioner. There was a smell of vomit and blood from Chien Y-Wu on the surgical table.

  "Who told you defect, Chien?" he asked quietly.^

  "I had orders. They came through Colonel Chu."

  "Chu? And who did he work for?"

  "The—the little man. K Section."

  "Name him," Durell said.

  "Dickinson McFee. General Dickinson McFee."

  "McFee ordered you to defect?"

  "Yes."

  "And ordered you to give L-5 our electronic secrets?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "I do not know."

  "You do know. Hurry. Answer me."

  "There is talk—whispers—of a secret cabal, some men who call themselves the Six Sentinels—Americans, high officers in the military and government " %

  "Name them," Durell snapped.

  "I do not know them! I swear! You can kill me "

  "You named McFee."

  "C
hu gave me his name."

  "No others?"

  "I do not know the others."

  The air-conditioner went off. A voice chattered softly on the intercom on Tai Ma's desk. Durell did not catch the words. Nothing changed in Tai Ma's face. Chien's breathing grew worse, and Durell leaned over the man's spasmed face. "Answer these questions. Can you hear me, Chien?"

  "I—hear you."

  "Who is White Guard?"

  "The President—of the United States."

  "And Dragon?"

  There was silence.

  "Dragon?" Durell repeated.

  "General—General Dickinson McFee."

  "You lie!"

  The tormented face was the color of old suet. "No. Please. Get me a doctor. I am in terrible pain."

  "Who is Dragon?"

  "McFee."

  "He sent you to Peking?"

  "Yes."

  "Why? Tell me again."

  "To give—electronic data—on espionage equipment."

  "Why?" Durell repeated.

  "To give—this regime—in Peking, an excuse "

  The victim coughed and strangled. The body jerked and twitched on the table. Overhead, the lamp flickered, grew dim, then brightened again.

  Chien whispered, "To provoke the regime—into a retaliation—which would give an excuse for an atomic—return. Nuclear war—would result. Taiwan would be—the alibi. The Six Sentinels feel—a war now—preventive— would be best. Later, Red China will be—too strong—for the United States "

  "Name the Six Sentinels," Durell insisted.

  "I—cannot."

  "Do you wish to die now?"

  "I know only two others "

  "Who are they?"

  Chien opened his mouth, coughed, and started to speak. There was a blur of movement in the corner of Durell's eye. Tai Ma came away from the wall of the cell, where he had been watching and listening, with all the impetus of a wild buffalo's charge. The momentum of his enormous weight barreled into Durell and the table like an avalanche. Durell was hurled across the room, caromed off the desk, and came up in a crouch. Tai Ma's huge face was expressionless. Something glittered, flickered in his stubby fingers, vanished into the prisoner's heaving, scrawny chest. It was a sleeve knife. Durell had no chance to stop the murder. There was a gout of blood, a whispering sigh as Chien collapsed like a thin sack of air, and then the table went over between Durell and the huge L-5 man.

  "If you shoot me," Tai Ma breathed quickly, "all the alarms will go off."

  Durell's finger was tight on the trigger. His right arm trembled slightly; he had slammed it against the desk when Tai Ma hurled him aside.

  "Be reasonable," Tai Ma whispered. "You and I can reach an understanding."

  "Did you kill him?"

  "I hope so."

  "He was about to tell you what you wanted to know."

  "I already know what the dog would say."

  "And you didn't want me to hear it?"

  "You are not Shan. I do not know who you are. So you must die—quickly."

  The man's knife flickered like the tongue of a snake. Durell stepped between the fat man and the cell door. He heard no alarm from the tunnel outside, but he knew that somehow Tai Ma had alerted the guards. Perhaps he had used a buzzer under his desk, or opened a listening device in the torture cell. There was a hissing sound from the air-conditioner then, and a white vapor curled around the electric bulb strung from the ceiling.

  Durell's toe prodded Chien's body, which had been hurled from the table by Tai's violent attack. Chien was dead. Tai's knife had pierced the heart with expert efficiency, and he saw bright arterial blood on the knife blade that now stabbed and thrust at him. No time now to wonder if Chien's death could have been prevented. He heard a hammering from the small cell door where he had imprisoned the Manchurians. They had sensed a change in the situation. Durell backed toward the main door, and Tai came around the overturned table, grinning suddenly, tasting triumph in Durell's retreat.

  "You understand?" the Chinese said softly. "You have lost. You were lost from the beginning, from before you even took Shan's place."

  "Why do you think I'm not Shan?"

  "There are differences. You do not fit Shan's pattern."

  Durell nodded. "You will take me out of here."

  "True. To the morgue, with the running dog of an imperialist I just killed. You must drop your gun. It is stupid of you to resist."

  The air vent hissed again. The vapor was getting thicker, but it was lighter than air and did not settle quickly. There was a trace of ammonia in the air, however, and Durell breathed lightly and shallowly. Tai Ma laughed.

  "The gas is not deadly. It will only make us pass out. After that, you will take Chien's place. The Manchurians will be happy to exercise their ancient talents on your body."

  "I can always kill you first," Durell said flatly. He raised his gun and saw surprise on Tai's round face. Durell squeezed the trigger. The shot was deafening in the narrow confines of the cell. The fat man went down like an oak chopped off at the base of the trunk. Durell had aimed correctly at the right knee. Tai's face spasmed and then froze with pain. His hands went flat on the stone wall and slid down, his leg twisted under him; he bit his lip until blood came, and his slanted eyes looked at Durell incredulously. Then he fainted.

  Durell took a careful step toward him, his gun aimed at Tai's head every moment while he pulled back the fat man's eyelids and checked. Tai Ma was out cold. He straightened slowly, and when he was a safe three steps away, he thrust his gun in his belt and turned swiftly to the iron cell door.

  It was locked. There was no keyhole and no key. It operated electronically. He turned back to the desk, ducked under the kneehole, and found the button and pressed it Nothing happened, and he was filled with dread lest he be trapped here.

  Then, with a low whine, the door slid aside.

  He stepped out quickly. From around a bend in the tunnel came high, querulous voices, raised in alarm. No one was in sight yet. He turned away from the sounds and trotted quickly down the visible length of the tunnel before him. There were several cell doors, all open. He turned a corner and the tunnel became less modern, walled with old brick. Darkness loomed beyond the last string of lights. He sprinted for it, heard a shout behind him. The old part of the tunnel, which could lead him anywhere under Peking toward the Imperial City, was about a hundred yards ahead, under the vaulted ceiling. He ran through a long pool of water, splashing noisily. A high-pitched buzzing alarm weirt off, piercing the tunnel with echoes. A loudspeaker gave out a spate of orders. Suddenly, from a side tunnel, several guards spilled into view. Their automatic weapons were at hip-level, and they began to fire as soon as they saw him.

  He threw himself flat, saw a door a few yards ahead, and crawled rapidly for it. Brick chips and dust sprayed in his eyes, scratched his face. The roar of automatic fire was deafening. He reached the door and rolled inside, not caring where he landed as long as he was out of tunnel, which was like a shooting gallery with himself as a running target.

  He was in the anteroom of what looked like an elevator shaft. The elevator door, with its unmistakable row of buttons, was closed. He lunged up, desperate, and punched the first button, then flattened against the wall, breathing lightly and quickly, his head turned to watch the door to the tunnel.

  The elevator whined, but there were no indicators to tell him how far above him the cage might be. Hope faded as the firing in the tunnel ended. He heard the cautious scuffle of approaching feet near the door. He could never get out in time. The gun butt felt slippery with sweat in his hands. There were only moments left

  The elevator door slid softly aside.

  He heard a whisper of command from the men just beyond the anteroom and side-stepped, still watching the door as he eased into the brightly modern cage. He could not possibly see if anyone was in the elevator; his attention was fixed on the gun muzzle being cautiously poked around the corner.

  He was aware of a flat sound
behind his ear, of a blur of movement in the corner of his eye, of a face beside the elevator door. Light exploded behind his eyes. Pain smashed him down to his knees. His gun went off reflex-ively, firing shot after shot into the elevator floor. He tried to raise it, to focus on the image that towered above him. The face was familiar. He saw it smiling down at him from a vast height.

  It was Colonel Chu, the Lotus pilot of the KMT who had flown him into China.

  His last thought was that Chu had been forced to crash, after he and Jasmine had jumped by parachute.

  Then he saw the gun in Chu's hand, descending slowly as if impeded by the drag of deep water. The whirling, dizzying light burst in his brain once more, and then he pitched forward out of the elevator, down an endless, black shaft that dropped him into nowhere.

  Thirteen

  He sweated, but he felt cold, ms eyes were open, but he saw nothing. He lay on something hard, and metal thrust into his ribs, and yet he floated gently in a nothing world of no-thought and no-feeling. Then his head ached, but his thoughts seemed crystal-clear.

  He looked up into Colonel Chu's young, benign face.

  "I never thought," said Chu, "you would get this far.

  "Why not?"

  "It was arranged to stop you,

  "And you finally had to do it yourself?"

  Chu smiled. "You shattered Tai Ma's kneecap. For a man of his size, it will be a lifelong disability."

  "I should have killed him."

  "As you killed Chien Y-Wu?"

  "Tai Ma did that."

  "So?"

  "Precisely. So."

  Chu hit him in the face. The pain of the blow seemed to sort out his detached thoughts and put them in order again. His senses began to work normally again. The hard cot under him was filled with springs; the darkness went. He saw Chu's narrow yellow face shadowed by a brightly glaring light behind him. What he could make out of the room looked like a duplicate of the torture cell where Chien had died; but he couldn't be sure of this, and he didn't concern himself about it. When he tried to sit up, he found he was fastened to the cot by leather straps at both wrists and both ankles and a wide leather band across his chest. He felt blood in his mouth.

  »»

  Colonel Chu smiled pleasantly and rubbed his knuckles. "You are not surprised to see me here in the Black House?"