"Explain it," Durell said.
"Would you use your gun on me, Samuel?"
"If I decide you are guilty, yes."
"Guilty of what?"
"High treason. Planning a nuclear preventive war. Behind the head of, or part of, the Six Sentinels."
"You have been convinced by evidence?" McFee asked coldly.
"The odds are that you are guilty."
"I know the odds. I know the appearances. Do you believe them?"
"I believe nothing. I know nothing. That's why here. To ask for answers."
"With your gun in Deirdre's back?"
"I'll use any means necessary."
"Would you truly shoot her? And me?"
Durell saw a slight change in the gray man's face. McFee's eyes flicked past him for a brief instant, then touched Deirdre's still, stiff figure. He smiled slightly. Durell resisted the impulse to turn his head and see what McFee had looked at. The door had been locked behind him, but he had the feeling of eyes fixed on the back of his neck.
"Be at ease, Samuel," McFee said. His voice, as always, held a note of calm, old-fashioned courtesy; he was a man who would never be startled into betraying his composure. "I can imagine the stories you have heard about my debts—which do not exist—and my fanatic decision that the only solution to this dark underground war in which I have been engaged—and you, too—may be a final holocaust to decide which state is to be supreme in the world. You should know me better by now."
"I don't think I know you at all, sir," Durell said.
McFee nodded. "Which is as it should be. Do you think you are alone in walking with danger every moment of your life? I built K Section, I created it, I commanded it from its inception. The work we have done may have been useless, even preposterous, to achieve our purpose. The men who have died on assignments—your friends and mine—may have died for an irony of history that makes their deaths meaningless. But I cannot believe that."
"Neither can I," said Durell.
"Freedom is a word often abused, made use of by friend and foe alike. Today, semantics is a tool for politics. We are afraid to call a spade a spade. We cover up unpleasant things with sweet icings of words. But you and I have risked our lives, and live in momentary threat of death, for a good purpose. Can you believe I would betray myself, and all the men of K Section who have died, by joining such a foul and irresponsible plot as the Six Sentinels?"
Durell gave no answer. McFee sighed and looked at his deadly blackthorn stick.
"Samuel, I can prove nothing. To attempt to prove my innocence to you is like answering the question of when I stopped beating my wife." The gray man's mouth twitched. "You did not know I was married? I have been married for forty-two years. I have grandchildren. They live under another name than mine, to protect them. I rarely see them. I don't dare visit them. You know the reasons for that. They are the same reasons for which you have refused to marry Deirdre all these years."
Deirdre moved slightly, then was motionless again. Durell could see her proud and lovely profile, but he could not take his eyes from McFee. He spoke quietly.
"I understand what I was supposed to do. You lent me to Haystead's E Branch, ostensibly to kill or rescue Chien Y-Wu before he gave the Chinese the details of our Lotus device. The real motive was to let Haystead use me in the hope that I'd learn something to get you off the hook, General. Haystead is out to smash K Section. A question of bureaucratic rivalry, perhaps. It's happened before. The Six Sentinels also want to wipe out K Section. Their reasons may be even more obvious. But I was meant to be made a tool by which you could be destroyed."
"Exactly, Samuel."
"Is Haystead really innocent? Is he a tool, too?"
"Yes," McFee said.
Durell was surprised, but did not show it. "Then who really runs E Branch? The answer seems plain. The Sentinels have infiltrated either E Branch or K Section, and they use either or both outfits to incite and promote nuclear war with Red China."
"Yes," McFee said again.
"Who are they?"
"I do not know."
"No leads at all?"
"Some."
"I have some leads, too," Durell said.
"I had been hoping you would get something."
DurelPs gun felt extraordinarily heavy in his hand. He was aware of a dragging fatigue, a sense of disorientation, as he faced Dickinson McFee. He heard Deirdre draw a small breath, but she did not move, as if she feared any interruption on her part that might shatter the delicate balance here, like a crystal. Then she said, "Sam, I beg of you. Listen to McFee."
"He'll still kill me, I think," Durell said.
"Yes, I may," McFee said. "Give me what you learned in China."
"I got it from Shan," Durell said. "I don't know how valid it may be. It's meaningless to me, anyway."
McFee seemed to tighten up behind his desk.
"A code list?"
"Half of one."
"Can you recite it?"
Durell looked at him and suddenly felt as if he had turned a corner. Anger changed in him, now directed against those who had duped him and brought him to this impossible situation where, to survive, he might see Deirdre killed. "The names are Dragon, White Horse, Yellow Tiger, Blossom of Tranquillity, Pink Cloud, Far Mountain."
McFee looked at him and said calmly, "That is all?"
"For whatever it's worth."
McFee said softly, "That's good. Oh, very, very good, Samuel. I knew you would do it."
"Do you know what the names mean?" "I have the other half of the code. . . . Samuel, where is Shan now?"
"He thinks you are one of the Sentinels. He's given me until dawn, and then he'll kill you himself."
"Other men have tried. Shan is very talented, though." McFee suddenly stood up, hands flat on the desk, and with one finger, pushed his blackthorn stick aside so that it pointed to the wall. "Come with me, Samuel. You, too, Deirdre."
Durell did not move. "Where?"
"To learn the names of the conspirators, of course. That's your job. It is mine, too. If we are lucky, this will be wrapped up in twenty minutes."
They entered the adjacent temple by the back way. Durell had put his gun away, and walked in silence beside Deirdre. McFee led the way, moving with his usual quick, light gait. The night was cool. There was no moon, and the alley was dark. If there had been anyone else in the Control house, Durell had seen no evidence of it. When he spoke of it, McFee shook his head.
"That is not K Section's Center for Taipei. It was used by the Sentinels until two months ago, to forward their plans that used Chien Y-Wu. You stopped that, finally. Before then, I sent two other men, Adams and Vitberg, into China. The Sentinels managed to silence them, then moved out. I moved in. There was no trace of their identities. But the people who picked you up at the airfield were not mine or Haystead's. They were Sentinel men. They don't know it, of course. They think they work for E Branch, in counterintelligence. That does not make them less dangerous, naturally."
The rear gate opened into a narrow walk that crossed a dark, silent garden. A door led them into a dimly lighted back room of the temple. The red glow of a glass lantern made it seem as if they all moved through an infrared film, distorting the statues on the wall shelves. There were tiers of them, each containing a row of Buddhist figures, and a huge brass gong hung from tasseled cords fixed to the red-timbered ceiling. McFee moved silently toward the glimmering, etched brass of the gong.
"Here," he said. "This was used as the key to the code. It's quite new, made to look as if it were an antique. The gong was installed seven months ago, as a charitable gift to the local monks. It was considered the best way to maintain a file of Sentinel personnel."
"A file?" Durell asked.
"An outfit like the Sentinels has an exaggerated idea of the dramatic," McFee said grimly. "Vitberg, who was killed by Black House people when I sent him into China, got a lead on this and managed to transmit it back to me before he was caught by the enemy. But
it didn't give me any of the real names."
They paused before the huge brass gong. It was six feet in diameter, and every inch of it was etched with animal figures and Chinese calligraphy. The red lantern did not yield enough light to define the characters clearly. McFee paused and leaned on his stick; Deirdre stood near the door they had used. The temple was silent, and felt empty.
"I've studied this for more hours than I care to admit," McFee said. "But I did not have the key. Let us hope that Shan was not imagining things."
Candles flickered in the main chamber, and Durell went there, to the great smiling, serene statue of Buddha, and took two of the candles and returned to the gong. By the light of the small flames, he began to go over every inch of the great sheet of brass.
"Why do you suppose the Sentinels put everything in the open this way?"
"They could not risk open files," McFee said. "And this was their forward post for action against the mainland. They broke up the key to the code on it and distributed parts to each of the top men. It was a method by which each of them was able to control his fellow conspirators—through fear of revealing the plot to the public."
" 'Dragon,' " Durell said suddenly. "Here it is." His fingers traced the traditional Chinese figure in a central design on the gong. "Can you read Mandarin, General?" Under the etching were tiny Chinese characters. "Man-Beast." He paused. "I make no name out of that, sir." Then he said, "Wait. Man-Far™, really."
McFee said, "Manfield. R. D. Manfield. He's a top industrialist in the computer field. Organizer of the U.P.— United Patriots. Manfield personally financed and actually armed members of his crackpot organization until the F.B.I, outlawed them on interstate arms shipments against I.C.C. regulations. Californian. A believer in the occult and manifest destiny."
" 'White Horse,'" Durell read. "Over here. This character could read Pale Mare. Palomar?"
"John Palomar, ex-movie star, silent days, reputed to be a millionaire several times over," McFee said. "Ran for Congress, defeated twice, involved in a gambling syndicate, indicted for malfeasance in office when he was lieutenant-governor of another state. Married five times. His latest bride is seventeen. He's seventy. Another 'Patriot.'"
" 'Yellow Tiger,'" said Durell. "Saffron Cat? No. Gold Cat. The last bit of calligraphy is vague."
McFee's voice tightened. "Feline. James Goldfel. They weren't very clever. He used to own a scandal sheet news syndicate, pandering to sex headlines and perversion. He used to cull crackpot letters to the editors and recruit members to his American Civil Guard units. Paramilitary outfits that attracted neurotics with itchy trigger fingers. The F.B.I, stepped on them, too. But maybe not hard enough."
The last three code names in the center disc of the gong came rapidly, then. "Blossom of Tranquillity" translated into a woman known publicly and simply as "Lily," who had a nationwide column of occult advice, horoscope interpretations, and advice to the lovelorn, although her own marriages and affairs were fables among the Underground sex magazines. "Pink Cloud" was a former Army general known as "Happy" Skyfield, another far-right militant whose speeches and pamphlets were paranoiac diatribes against minorities and anyone who disagreed with his strong-arm theories of civil control. The last, "Far Mountain," was Rocky Westbank, a wealthy yachtsman, international sportsman, member of the jet set and those dim echelons of society that reach public news only through echoes of private brawls, incredibly orgiastic parties, and hints of exotic pleasure cruises that enterprising reporters could only guess at. Westbank had an office building in Hong Kong and was the owner of a string of international hotels scattered all around the world—very private, small, and discreet. The Ma Tsu, the Sea Goddess Hotel in Taipei, was the largest and most obvious of the Westbank hostelries.
There was a long silence after they had decoded the symbols on the gong. McFee nodded to Deirdre, who took a small flash camera from her purse and photographed the brass etchings from several angles. Durell felt as if a vast weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His mind was clear, as if he had awakened from a long, horrifying dream. The temple, however, no longer felt empty and deserted.
McFee said, "I'll get on this list immediately. A cable to Washington will start things rolling—right at the White House. I doubt if we can obtain public indictments of these Sentinels, but the publicity will be enough to create a national outrage and stop them cold. They won't be able to go on with their plans. I believe I owe you thanks, Samuel."
"Not to me. Shan got the key."
"And you got it from Shan." McFee looked exhausted, suddenly. "I think K Section will survive now. It does not matter—it never mattered much—about you and me, Samuel. The Sentinels wielded influence in a hundred directions. Money, social and political and industrial influence gave them their strength. They worked in the dark, and all we need is a ray or two of light to make them shrivel up and wither away. I think the worst is over."
A precise, Oxonian voice spoke behind them.
"Yes, gendemen. And you are all under arrest."
Durell turned slowly and carefully.
It was Colonel Chu.
The renegade was not alone. Two of the spruce young men who had snatched Durell at the airfield w^re behind him. They carried automatic weapons at the ready. The colonel was smiling. He looked trim and dapper, his little moustache was neatly groomed, and his black eyes beamed with satisfaction.
"You are surprised, Durell? I arranged for another Lotus plane to transport me. Actually, I had hoped to reach Taipei before you. It was not possible, but the I.P.S. communication system works magnificently. Poor General Haystead! He still thinks he operates E Branch. But his men take orders from me—and I take orders from the Sentinels. I tell you all this because there is no danger you will ever divulge these facts. The code you broke is meaningless, since it dies with you."
McFee said quietly, "Stand aside, Deirdre."
Colonel Chu said, "Remain as you are, young woman. The three of you will die together."
Deirdre did not move. Her blue eyes touched Durell with despair. Chu said, "Durell, drop your gun."
Durell did so. "I'm Shan," he said.
"Really? And where is Durell?"
"Somewhere in Taipei, hunting for you."
"You lie. Shan is dead!"
"You had reports of two of us, identical, in Peking, Chu. Didn't you figure it out? Durell and I met, and we are working together. He will get you. He knows as much as we. McFee sent him."
Chu looked from one to the other. His armed hoodlums wore blank faces. A light bead of perspiration was visible on Chu's young features. He licked his lips. "Yes, yes, there was some confusion in Peking. Reports of two of you, appearing at different places. I placed no credence in it. Even if I did, it could not matter. You—Shan or Durell, whichever you are—and General McFee will be found dead, listed as suicides, and a suitable cover story describing traitorous activities will be circulated in the intelligence community all over the world. Congress will hear of it, and K Section will be abolished. Whatever information you have on the Sentinels will die with you. It is too bad, Shan—or Durell—that you did not believe my arguments in the Black House and kill McFee for me. It seemed logical that you might. A slight miscalculation on my part, but it does not matter now, does it? Please step forward, gentlemen. Away from the gong, please."
No one moved.
Chu said impatiently, "You are foolish if you resist. The girl, you may be sure, will then die most painfully."
"To hell with you," Durell said.
McFee said, "You have no chance, Chu. Your presence here is simply desperate folly. Everything is known, finished. Durell is at the cable office now, wiring Washington the details."
"You lie!"
McFee shrugged. He looked simple and innocuous. "Ask Haystead. He has been informed, too. You and your men will be hunted down by every agency of the government. The Kuomintang on Taiwan will not deal kindly with you, i£ we don't get you first. You have nowhere to go. The Lotus planes
are grounded. We were expecting you, of course. The plane that took you here went with my agreement. You see, we preferred not to leave you in the Black House in Peking, to work against us."
The Chinese flicked his eyes from McFee to DurelTs tall figure. He bit his lip, raised his gun impulsively, and Durell's nerves jumped, expecting the same display of temper he had suffered in the Black House cell. At that morrent, a shadow moved behind the two men in the temple doorway. He did not hesitate. With one arm, he thrust Deirdre aside, headlong away from the brass gong. With his right elbow, he rammed backward against the sheet of brass, and the clanging, banging echoes filled the little room with deafening resonance. Then he launched himself forward.
Chu's gun crashed, and crashed again. The shadow behind Chu struck forward and became Shan, Durell's duplicate. The two strong-arm men whirled to confront him, and Durell's shoulder hit Chu's stomach, bowled him over, and he felt something slash the side of his face, another blow that deafened his left ear, and then he drove his fist upward, deflecting Chu's stuttering gun. They crashed back against the wall. Chu's body was like a small coil of steel springs. His empty gun smashed repeatedly at Durell's head and shoulders, and he could not hold the Chinese for long. He heard several more shots, and then a sharp pinging noise, and steel glittered in Chu's throat, a long, narrow pin like a dart. The renegade KMT man suddenly stiffened under Durell, his body arched rigidly, his heels drummed the plank floor. Then he suddenly collapsed into a small, limp sack, empty of life.
"That will be quite enough, Samuel. Thank you. And thank you, Shan," said McFee quietly.
General Dickinson McFee wiggled his blackthorn stick. He had fired the poison dart in its tip at Chu's throat. Durell rolled off the Chinese and stood up slowly, looking for Deirdre. She was staring at Shan in amazement. It was the first time she had seen Durell's duplicate. It was Shan who had silenced the other two gunmen with swift efficiency.
"I think," said McFee gently, "that we can clean things up now."
Twenty-three
Durell lay in darkness, the bandages tight over his eyes, and listened to the sound of a lark in the early dawn outside the bungalow. His face ached—Ike Greentree had tapered off the sedatives. He felt his cheeks and the contours of his jaw with tentative, exploring fingertips. He felt like himself. He was no longer Major Shan of the Black House. He was once again Sam Durell of K Section.
Assignment Peking Page 18
