Assignment - Lowlands

by Edward S. Aarons

  “I have no information on that,” Durell said.

  “I don’t believe you. You look too cool for comfort.”

  Durell gave the big man no answer. For a moment he debated taking Julian Wilde, disarming him. He could do it,he decided. Julian Wilde was big and powerful and undoubtedly armed; but the risk might be worth it, if the whole thing could be wound up here and now. The only trouble was, there was no telling what provision Wilde might have made against such a move. There was a feral quality about him that made Durell pause—an amoral glint in the eye, a savagery to the mouth. There was a breed of adventurers in the world who acknowledged no moral codes. And the stamp of that breed was on Julian Wilde, without mistake.

  “We know nothing about what has happened to your brother,” Durell said. “I’m sure we don’t have him.”

  “You’ve got him, all right. Why else would he vanish? I want him back, friend. And I resent this move against us. The price has gone up. We want ten million now.”

  Durell stared. “I’ve only been authorized to deal with you for five million dollars.”

  “Too bad. The cost of fooling around brings it up to ten. In cash, at the Banque Populaire Suisse. And for every hour Marius is missing, the price rises another hundred thousand. Understand?”

  “I’m not authorized—”

  “Then get the authorization!” Julian Wilde snapped. A fine beading of sweat was on his upper lip. “I want Marius back, safe and unharmed. I haven’t taken care of the bloody fool all these years, trying to get ahead, just to have him pay the piper at the last minute.”

  “I don’t know what I can do,” Durell said. “For all I know, your brother may have paid the same price Piet Van Horn paid.”

  “No! Marius knew how to handle the stuff.”

  “Is he the biochemist, then?”

  “We both know how to handle Cassandra; don’t worry.”

  “Well enough to spread the plague in Doorn?”

  “It’s been contained there,” Wilde said quickly.

  “But five fishermen have died.”

  “Well, that was their fault, you see? One of them got frisky, and they all paid for it. Anyone who crosses us pays for it.”

  “And those deaths don’t bother you?” Durell asked. “Are you serious in your threat to kill millions of people?” There was silence in the room, and in the brief pause Durell heard again the cries of the bathers on the beach, the thud and slap of the tennis players, the jingle of bicycle bells. Beyond the window the sun shone on an innocent holiday world. But what was outside seemed unreal, and the only truth was in this hotel room, in the words that darkened the atmosphere between them.

  A subtle change had come over Julian Wilde—a sense of menace and desperation, of complete detachment from normal human values. Watching him, Durell felt a faint shiver deep inside himself. There was something different about Wilde. His British manner rang untrue, oddly out of key. All at once, Durell felt as if he had invited an alien danger into the room that had changed the color of the atmosphere and tinged the day with weird and unparalleled menace.

  He shook himself mentally. Either he was beginning to run a fever, which meant he was hopelessly following Piet down to doom, or he was letting this man’s manner dominate him with hypnotic strength.

  “Well, there you have it,” Wilde said suddenly. “I mean to have Marius back, safe and hearty, clear? The price is now ten million—and in return, you get all the Cassandra: lab and equipment and culture vials.”

  “How can we know you won’t hold out enough to blackmail us again?”

  “You can’t be sure. You must trust us.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “You have to.” Wilde grinned tightly. “Remember, get Marius back by six o’clock. I’ll drop by then. And arrange for the increase in bank credits, like a good chap. Or else.” Wilde’s hand moved flickeringly, faster than Durell had ever seen a knife drawn before. The blade came from his sleeve, and its flat shaft caught the sunlight with a momentary blinding flash as Wilde stepped across the room and thrust the point at Durell’s throat. Durell did not move. His dark eyes were almost black as he said quietly: “Put the knife away, Wilde.”

  “What I can do to you now, I can do to the whole world. Is that clear? I mean to be safe, and I mean to be wealthy. I haven’t suffered and waited all these years for nothing. Neither I nor Marius will tolerate any foolery. We mean what we say. We would rather die than fail— as you will die, if you don’t have Marius here for me by six o’clock tonight to conclude our deal.”

  There was something tigerish in the man’s brown eyes, in his tight, hard grin. Durell felt the pinprick of the knife point against his throat and said again, “Put it away, Wilde, or lose it.”

  “Lose it? Really? I’m fond of this blade, you know. I’ve had two, exactly alike, for a long time. If you could see the grip, you would notice the skull and crossbones of the dear old Gestapo elite. Inlaid with silver and ivory, no less. The Nazi who owned it died when he began beating poor Marius. Marius never knew how to care for himself. Or am I telling you too much? Is it all registering? Will you do some quick research on us? It will get you nowhere, friend. When we have our credits and you have Cassandra, the deal will be ended, and we shall simply disappear.”

  “I doubt if you’ll get away with it.”

  “Oh, but we will!” Then man breathed angrily. “We’ve waited a long time—and Marius may not have been strong enough to cope with this brutal world, but he was clever, and a wonderful schemer. He saw the possibilities when the chance came. He worked out everything.”

  “So of the two of you, he is the brains” Durell said. “You may think so, if you like.”

  “Without him, you’re just the muscle, is that it?”

  The knife at Durell’s throat moved slightly. “This blade has been used more than once. I could use it again.

  I could easily dislike you, old man, to the point where I might kill you.”

  “For the last time,” Durell said, “put it away.”

  Wilde grinned. There was a sort of jungle cruelty in the man, a fanaticism and a knowledge of blood spilled long ago.

  Durell dropped and turned, chopping at the knife in Wilde’s threatening hand. His move was fluid and deadly. Wilde made a thin gasping sound and tried to step back, but Durell hooked a foot behind his heel and sent him over backward, staggering. At the same time, Durell twisted painfully and the knife went flickering through the air. Durell turned with it and when it clattered to the floor, he stamped hard on it.

  The blade shattered under his heel.

  Stooping, he picked up the handle, noting the ivory and jeweled Nazi decorations in the grip. He tossed the broken point of the blade into the wastebasket.

  “You broke my knife!” Wilde whispered incredulously. “I don’t like them at my throat. Not even as a joke. Or was it a joke, Wilde?”

  “I had that a long time. I valued it highly.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have treated it as a toy.” Something faded in Wilde’s pale brown eyes, and then he looked up and shrugged, smiling. The tension and violence abruptly left his voice and he spoke quietly and crisply.

  “I shall call on you again at six o’clock this evening. I will be prepared to deliver everything you want. In return, I warn you, I must find my brother Marius here, safe, unharmed. And ten million dollars in credits. At six o’clock.”

  “I’ll be here,” Durell said.

  He stood still until Julian Wilde had left the room.

  He counted a slow ten, then he too stepped out into the corridor. A young man and a girl came down the hall hand in hand, swinging tennis rackets. They smiled at Durell in passing. There was no sign of Julian Wilde.

  For a moment he wondered if Wilde might be checked into an adjacent room. It might have been the smart thing to do. Then the young man, in passing, said in accented English, “Are you looking for your friend, sir? He went down the steps there, in a tremendous hurry.”

&nbs
p; “Thank you.”

  He followed quickly, going down the wide wooden stairs to the lobby. Perhaps what he was doing was not practical, but there was a faint chance that he might be able to tail Julian Wilde to some place of importance. That he might infuriate the already fury-ridden man was a chance he had to take.

  Wilde was striding out through the front doorway of the Gunderhof when Durell reached the bottom of the stairs. The sea sparkled blindingly beyond the brief boardwalk and the beach. Sails bent to the wind beyond the low-lying islands offshore. Wilde turned left, stalking with feline grace among the deckchairs and tangled bicycles on the paving, and he did not look back. The path on the dike led in a long curve toward the red roofs and docks of Amschellig, a quarter-mile away. The walk was spotted with strollers and cyclists; and Durell, after allowing a greater distance to come between them, followed Wilde at an even pace.

  It seemed to him that his brief interview had netted enough information to keep Inspector Flaas and O’Keefe quite busy. No one except Piet had mentioned Marius Wilde until now. And Julian Wilde was in a rage because his brother was missing. Durell had no idea what meaning this might have, except that Julian had remorselessly applied more pressure because of it. Something would have to be done about it quickly.

  He wished he could have held the man a little longer. Too many questions were still unanswered. Were Julian and his brother the only men involved in the Cassandra plot? Or were there others? Perhaps the Wildes were only messengers and agents; but on this, Durell could not make up his mind. Julian Wilde seemed to be his own master, and only time would tell if there were others still in the shadows.

  Julian Wilde seemed unconcerned about being followed. He walked swiftly in the North Sea sunshine, never looking backward. Durell checked behind him to see if Wilde’s self-assurance stemmed from having a cover for his escape; but he could see no one suspicious among the holiday crowds strolling on the dike.

  Amschellig had a long, wide main street that paralleled the waterfront, where the buildings were mostly commercial houses devoted to both the fishing industry and tourists. Across from the main quay for the blunt-bowed fishing boats, an amusement pier of modest size had been built. The harbor, behind its stone mole, was crowded with yachts, and the narrow, brick-paved streets were completely taken over by the tourists.

  It immediately became more difficult to keep Wilde in sight, and only the man’s size and leonine blond head made it possible. Beyond the amusement pier, Wilde turned abruptly Into a narrow side street lined with warehouses, and Durell increased his speed to turn the same corner.

  He never quite reached it.

  From the quayside, where a number of sailing sloops were tied up, stepped a giant young Hollander, in the typical narrow-visored cap and baggy trousers. He put a huge hand on Durell’s chest, and smiled, showing several gold teeth in his mouth.

  “Mynheer, a moment, if you please.”

  “Get out of my way.”

  “It is important, mynheer. I am authorized—”

  “Get lost,” Durell snapped.

  “Lost?” The big young man frowned, his pale brows wrinkling under the cap. His callused seaman’s hand remained on Durell’s chest. “You do not know where you are, mynheer?”

  Durell saw Julian Wilde escaping if another moment went by, and acted out of momentary anger as he chopped at the big Hollander’s hand that pressed him toward the dockside. But the seaman’s arm was like an oaken log, hard and immovable. His eyes opened with blue, innocent surprise and hurt, and when Durell stabbed a stiff fistful of fingers into the man’s solar plexus, in what should have been a disabling blow, the Hollander wasn’t there to receive it.

  “Mynheer, please, we are friends—”

  Durell swung again, but his wrist was caught in the huge hand and he was twisted off balance. No one had ever been able to do that to him before: the Hollander’s strength was enormous. The man grinned like a happy idiot.

  “I am sorry, Heer Durell. I have a boat to offer you, that is all. You are looking for a boat to rent, are you not? We should make a bargain quickly, before people start to stare at us.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Inspector Flaas suggested that you rent a boat, right?” Durell stared at the huge young man, then at the alley where Wilde had disappeared. It still might not be too late. But when he started around the big man, the other said in a low, firm voice, “I am sorry, mynheer. I must insist. I have my instructions. Trinka wants to see you now.”

  “Later!”

  “Now.”

  Durell let his arm go slack, ducked under the other’s grip, feeling his skin burn where the big man tried to hang on, and came up facing the Hollander. This time he got in a hard right to the other’s belly. He didn’t care what sort of scene he created now. He heard a woman passerby gasp, and a man shouted and the big Hollander went staggering back, losing his cap as he jolted heavily against a dock shed with enough of an impact to make the little structure shake violently. There was still only innocent regret and surprise on the man’s face. He licked his lips, shook his head, hunched his shoulders, and came at Durell like a charging bull.

  Durell never liked to think afterward of what might have happened if he really had it out with the Hollander then. He stood braced as the giant charged, frustrated by the man’s persistence. And then, as if he had been checked by a leash, the Hollander came to an abrupt halt as a girl’s annoyed, light voice called:

  “Jan! Jan Gunther! Stop that nonsense this instant!”

  Eight

  Her voice carried astonishing authority for her size. The Dutch girls Durell knew were usually full-bodied and had the typical Hollander’s well-fed look. This one was tiny, with jet-dark hair that betrayed Spanish ancestry from the time the Duke of Alba ruled the Netherlands for Spain. Her features, however, had the milky softness and radiant complexion of all the Dutch. And in proportion to her size, her figure was exquisite, even bold.

  She came toward them across the quay with a determined stride: a small, seductive figure in white shorts and a man’s white shirt open at the throat. Her legs were long and firm and deeply tanned. She wore her dark hair cut short, boyishly, but there was an ultrafemininity about her, from the top of her angry head to her tiny, tapping toes as she stood diminutively beside the hulking Jan Gunther.

  “I am so sorry, Heer Durell. Jan misunderstood. I did not mean to detain you this way. Were you going somewhere important?”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Durell said.

  “I am Trinka Van Horn,” she said, and put out her hand. “Uncle Piet and I work for the same company, you might say.”

  “Trinka?”

  She wrinkled her tiny nose. “A very common name, is it not? Katrinka Van Horn. The boat I own is the Suzanne—no one knows why. It is as stubborn and opinionated as a mule—or a man.”

  “That could be a feminine trait, too,” Durell said.

  “Oh, dear. Are we to be enemies?”

  He looked at her firm, perfect little figure in her shorts. “Are we to share your boat?”

  “Yes. That is the general idea.”

  “Then I sincerely hope we’ll be friends,” he said.

  “Oh, you are so gallant—for an American, that is. Of course, Jan comes along, too. As crew—and perhaps as bodyguard.”

  “A pity.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Jan can be useful.”

  Durell rubbed his wrist reminiscently. “I suppose so.” He looked at the hulking young Jan, whose bright blue eyes were fixed in abject worship of the tiny Trinka. “All right, Jan? No hard feelings?”

  His English was thick and stubborn. “Of course not, sir.”

  “We thought it best to begin at once on the cruise,” the girl said. “I was about to send Jan to the Gunderhof for you, since I think Inspector Flaas makes too much out of precautionary measures. You were pointed out to us when you checked in this morning. There is little time to waste. So I decided to begin our search today.”<
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  “Search?”

  “For the bunker-laboratory, of course.”

  “Have you been trying to find it for long?”

  “We have been cruising the Frisians for almost a week—since before Piet came here. But we haven’t found anything so far.”

  “Did you see Piet yesterday?”

  “No. But Flaas telephoned and said Piet has vanished and he fears—We all think Uncle Piet is in serious trouble. Unless you can reassure me—” She looked at him questioningly. “Can you tell me anything about Uncle Piet, Mr. Durell?”

  “Nothing good,” he said soberly.

  Her eyes quickly searched his face. Under her diminu-femininity there was a toughness of steel, he decided. He saw by the look on her face that she understood his words, accepted them, mourned, and adjusted to this new fact, all in the space of a few brief seconds.

  “Is he—dead?” Her voice was quiet.

  “Trinka—” Jan began.

  “It is all right. Is Uncle Piet dead, Heer Durell?” “Yes,” Durell said.

  She was silent. An outboard motor started up in the anchorage, popping and stuttering, then settling down to a roar. A woman laughed on one of the moored yachts. Sea gulls slid down the edge of the wind blowing from over the North Sea. The air felt colder, somehow, although the sun was still bright and the tourists nearby were still gay. The girl nodded slowly and rubbed her arm. The wind caught little tendrils of her dark hair and blew them across the bloom of her cheek. Durell saw she was in her late twenties, mature and with a bright intelligence.

  “Thank you for not lying to me, as you did to Flaas,” she said quietly.

  “I didn’t exactly lie—”

  “It is all right. I trust you will continue to be frank with me, if we are to work together on this Cassandra project.”

  Jan Gunther said clumsily, “Shall we go aboard now?”

  “Why not?” Durell asked.