Durell felt a pressure of urgency even greater than before. There were two dead bodies not far from here, and a tip to the local police would cause him infinite delay. Time seemed to run like sand through his fingers. Since Riddle had changed his mind about employing him—and just why? he wondered—it was plain that every effort would be made to keep him out of it.
"Mr. Riddle and his associates," Denis was saying, "were keeping me a prisoner in the house. Nothing overt, but just—well, I couldn't get away. So I swam. I used an aqualung. It's the only sport I'm good at. I do scuba diving to relax, after working in the lab here."
"Does Riddle know you skipped out?" Durell asked.
"I hope not. He— "
"When did you leave?"
"About two hours ago."
"And you came straight here?"
"Yes, I—I hoped to find Linda here."
"You didn't see Harry?"
Deakin adjusted his heavy glasses and looked at Linda with open longing. "No, I didn't see Harry. I never want to see Harry. I loath him. I'd kill him, if I saw him."
"Did you?"
"What?"
"Did you kill him?"
"What are you ?"
Linda said bitterly, "Harry is dead. Murdered. So is Ryana Fazil."
"What?"
"Dead," Linda repeated.
Denis looked pale. But his eyes were objective and cool, and it was plain that despite his emotions toward Linda, the rest of his brain was a carefully controlled computer. He spoke quietly. "Were you there, Linda, when it happened?"
"Yes, Sam and I went for the painting. I changed my mind about your material. I was going to give it to Sam. But Sam says Harry stole it and sold it to the Communists."
Deakin pushed up his glasses with his thumb. He swung to Durell. "Is that true?" "I think it is." "What about the cops?" "Taken care of, I hope. Did you do it, Denis?" Deakin smiled. "No, of course not." "Are you happy about it?"
"Not particularly, Mr. Durell. But I'm worried about all my data." He looked his yearning at Linda again. "I'm not competent to handle this matter. Linda, I know you don't think much of me. I don't understand you, and never did. Maybe I'm not much of a man, as you've told me. I just like my—my work. I do it well, and I can't seem to talk to you about small things, even though I love you. You make me tongue-tied."
"You're so straight," Linda said with contempt. Durell said, "Deakin, you need a drink." "I don't—I rarely drink." "You'll have one now."
He had a bottle of bourbon in the bedroom. He noted that Deakin had stretched out in his wet clothes on one of the twin beds in there. Maybe Denis was telling the truth. Maybe. He poured a short one and gave it to the straw-haired young man, whose teeth were now chattering. Linda's antagonism toward him seemed pitiless. Deakin coughed on the liquor and Durell spoke quietly to him and the answers he received were not surprising now. The pattern had crystallized rapidly. Durell did not believe what he was told, ordinarily. In his business, survival depended on ruthless cynicism. You never knew. Some of his best friends had been killed by their best friends.
He thought of General McFee and their talk in the park, and McFee's poison-tipped cane. He thought of Madame Hung, and the warm night outside seemed darker and less friendly.
As Deakin talked, however, he accepted what he heard.
When Juan Piedra phoned from Miami, Durell knew what he had to do. He spoke carefully and quickly.
"Even if Deakin is a genius, he isn't really sure what he discovered about neutrinos. He made only one copy of his formula. There was another, originally, with his working papers—he had a free hand in his laboratory—but Riddle made him destroy that, so only the one copy of all of Denis's work exists. Riddle took it, and didn't even offer Deakin a bonus for it."
"Chintzy," Piedra said.
"That's how you become a billionaire. But it's even too big for Riddle. He finally offered a partnership to a syndicate—Ulrich von Golz, Yussuf Hadad Fazil, and Han Fei Wu. But these four men ran into unexpected opposition from their flower children." Durell paused. "The four daughters have been friends for a long time. They're conspiring to block their fathers' plans for a monopoly on the data. Linda swiped the stuff and gave it to the artist, Harry, for safe-keeping. But Harry wasn't so much hip as he was left—far left. Chinese left. Linda thought she loved him, so she trusted the bastard."
Durell paused. "As for Riddle hiring me, I think he first thought he could handle it himself—with my help. Then his partners talked him out of it—especially Mr. Han, who I think is backed up by Madame Hung and an outfit I used to be part of, back in the fifties in Malaysia. Anyway, enough pressure was put on Riddle to get him to try to fire me."
Piedra swore in gutter Spanish. "The painting is on its way to China, Sam. A float plane made contact with a shrimp boat, the Six Brothers. The local C.G. cutter got to] the rendezvous too late. I tried, but the plane headed for' Cuba. And there's a jet liner due to take off for the Far East tomorrow. We can't stop it, short of shooting it down. The odds are, the painting and the Deakin formula will be on it."
"Headed for Singapore," Durell said angrily.
"How do you know the destination?"
"Riddle, Fazil, Von Golz and Mr. Han have left the] keys, according to Deakin. Denis heard talk aboutj Singapore."
"Madame Hung's headquarters?"
"That's my guess."
"She doesn't love you, Cajun."
"She's also a bit afraid of me. That's why she worked—I'm guessing on this—through Han for Riddle to fire me.
"She's the worst there is. What will you do?"
"Use the girls. They're against their daddies, but not necessarily for us. I'll play it by ear. I don't think Fazil knows about Ryana's death yet."
"Don't go east, Sam. Let Singapore Central handle it." Piedra sounded very worried.
"I think I must, Juan. I owe Madame Hung something."
"Sam, just how big is it? What did Denis discover?"
Durell sighed. "I wish I knew. He isn't quite sure himself. But it's big. Maybe the biggest thing of the century. Technology moves faster and faster, Juan. It's apt to spin this tired old world, rich men and poor, hippies and straights, right into oblivion."
The Cuban was silent. "What can I do to help?"
"I'll need money, cover papers, and a ticket to Singapore."
"Can do. Broker Two."
Behind him, Linda drew a sharp breath. "Sam?"
"Hold it, Juan." He turned his head. The girl was angry. "What is it, Linda?"
"We're going with you."
" 'We'?"
"Pan and Anna-Lise and I."
"No."
"Yes. Or I call the fuzz on you right now."
"You're involved too, Linda. Murder "
"I don't care. We're going with you."
"No, this is my line of business, not yours. You don't stop a creature like Madame Hung by throwing love flowers at her."
"Just the same, we're going." She spoke adamantly. "I'm going to destroy Denis's formula. I don't understand my father. Maybe he's power hungry. Men get that way, when they lift themselves out of the dirt. And Anna-Lise and Pan and I will destroy that data. Nobody will get it, and the world will be safer and saner without it. It's not going to the Pentagon, which you'd have to do with it, Sam. I'll do anything to stop that, too. So we're going with you to stop you, too."
Durell looked at her and said into the telephone, "Juan? Make it four reservations for Singapore, soonest. Come in and fly us out of here."
"Mr. Durell?" Deakin said. He pushed up his hornrimmed glasses again. "I'm going along."
"No."
"I've got to help Linda."
Linda said, "We don't need you, marshmallow."
"I'm going anyway. Same alternative. Take me, or I call the cops and none of us goes and the data will get to Peking, or wherever."
Durell said curiously, "Couldn't you reproduce your laboratory work, quickly enough?"
"It could take years. I worked on i
t since fifty-nine. I don't even know if I could do it again. I was just lucky." Deakin's eyes were bitter. "Do I go with you, or not?"
Durell sighed and turned back to the telephone. "Juan, make it five seats to Singapore."
Linda stared at Denis Deakin as if she had never seen him before.
7
The Pan Am jet liner dipped a wing and circled low over the teeming island of Singapore, the Lion City,_ and then touched down perfectly at the Paya Lebar International Airport. Other jets from Cathay Pacific Airways, the Thai hne, and Garuda Indonesian were lined up on the sweltering runways. It was a ten-minute drive into the city proper. Durell explained to Anna-Lise that the name of Singapore came from ancient Sanskrit, Singa Pura, The girls had been reasonably cooperative on the flight; Washington had sent him cover papers as a tutor engaged to guide the three young women and Denis Deakin. He had ten thousand dollars out of the Green Fund, for which he'd had to sign abstracts and receipts in six different versions.
Durell had slept off and on during the trip, and at Istanbul he had phoned to K Section's Control to send off a detailed coded message to General McFee. For the most part, the three girls were sobered and quiet, perhaps because of Ryana Fazil's death. They cruelly ignored Deakin, who occupied a seat across the aisle in unhappy isolation. The girls still wore their medallions, and Linda would not tell Durell their meaning, if there was any. They were clever and sophisticated, he reflected, accustomed to thinking of the world as belonging to themselves thanks to their fathers' incalculable fortunes. They were not true hippies or flower people, he thought.
When they approached Karachi, he had asked Linda, "Does your father know how you oppose his plans?"
"I've toid him how we feel," Linda said coolly.
'The other giris and their fathers?"
"They know we object to their plans to monopolize neutrino research. It wouldn't do the world any good, would it? But Daddy and Mr. von Golz and Fazil and little Mr. Han—they hunger for it, while we want only a world that's safe from people like our fathers."
"Can't they simply order you into convents, or something like that?"
"We have our own money," little Pan piped up. She wore her jet-black hair in severe bangs over her almond eyes, but her voice was soft and gentle. "It was more difficult for me to argue with my respected parent, of course. But Linda made the issue plain, and we all agreed that this terrible old world needs some sanity and peace and love in it."
"How did you all get together?" Durell asked curiously.
"We went to the same school in Switzerland," Anna-Lise put in. Her Valkyrie beauty and strong, arrogant body seemed at ease, in contrast to the tension in her friends. Of the three girls, the German seemed the most self-sufficient. "Do not think, Sam Durell," she added in her accented English, "that we are your friends and allies. We will destroy Denis's work, rather than see it fall into the hands of warmongering lackeys like you. We do not wish it to go to Peking, either. But until the data is safely out of our fathers' hands, we will consent to help you and work v^th you."
"Thanks for nothing much," said Durell. "You seem to have picked up some of Peking's terminology, Anna-Lise."
Her blue eyes were cold. "My friends and I believe in peace and love. We feel that we young people must lift the world from the nightmare of threats and war in which your masters have plunged us."
Durell had sighed and closed his eyes and tried to sleep again. When he awoke, the Boeing 707 was lowering over the jungled islands and cities of Palembang, with its sea-level canals and reed roofs, its houses on pilings and sampans hidden in green creeks. The jet tilted again, swung over Changi Point on the island of Singapore; he could see tourists on the beaches, sixteen miles from the city proper. Ten minutes later, they disembarked on an island halfway around the world from Key West.
The young Chinese in the Madison Avenue suit smiled broadly in greeting as they came through customs; he picked out Durell unerringly. "Broker Two, sir?"
Durell did not like to be so quickly identified. He went through the motions of shepherding the girls and Deakin, who were his ostensible charges, and asked them to wait. He put on his sunglasses against the heat and glare of the Paya Lebar Airport. "If I am?" he said. "The market is down."
"But we are optimistic, sir. I am Chu'Ko Liang. To be of service to you. From the Great China Bazaar, sir."
He had named Singapore Central. Durell said, "Where is Levy Liscomb?"
"A touch of the fever, sir. Nothing much. Tourists bring in—ah ha!—'Asian flu.' He recovers nicely. Please come this way? You and the young ladies, of course. Everything is arranged."
Chu'Ko Liang wore a crisp shirt, a dark necktie, a snap-brim Panama. He looked eminently respectable. A heavy ruby ring shone on a finger of his right hand, but DurelL did not think it had to mean anything. Chu'Ko was a little careless about the bulge of his gun under his coat. He was young, with the broad cheekbones and sharp nose of the Northern Chinese from Shantung. He gave half a bow to Pan. "Your esteemed father, the respected Mr. Han, waits for you, miss."
"He's here? And knows we're arriving?" Durell asked sharply.
"I'm afraid so. But no need for concern. We will need no help."
"I don't shout unless I'm certain of an echo," Durell returned.
"Ah, you know our Chinese sayings! Very good, sir.
Levy Liscomb likes to call himself Sun Wu. You know of him, sir?"
Durell nodded. "Sun Wu was the master spy of Chinese history. Wrote the Art of War in the fourth century B.C. He was a speciaUst in guerrilla tactics and the use of double and expendable agents."
"Ah ha!" Chu'Ko Liang was very pleased. His teeth flashed. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off little Pan, however. "Now, if you will come this way? I have a limousine. Unless you would like a few moments in the dining room first? Some beer? Singaporean brands are very good—Tiger, Anchor "
"No, let's move. You've attracted enough attention to us already," Durell said flatly.
The car that the Control man led them to might as well have been a brass band, he thought grimly. It was a long Cadillac, painted a garish lilac. Chu'Ko had driven it here himself. The three girls murmured together, then agreed to get into the back. Denis Deakin folded himself onto the jump seat facing them. Durell sat up front beside the Chinese. Chu'Ko closed the glass partition, smiled briefly at him, and expertly guided the big car away from the airport parking area.
Singapore had not changed much since Durell's last visit. They came down the Jalan Besar Road, passing the sprawl and noise of the New World Amusement Park, and slid effortlessly into the city that had always attracted pirates and princes and all who dreamed of empire. It was a city where almost everyone was welcome, stranger or not. In the streets, all were citizens—Chinese, Malay, Indian, a remnant of British, Indonesian and Arab. There was a noticeable predominance of youth; and of these, the Chinese were most obvious. The clash of gongs, a blare of atonal music, the traffic noises and Chinese banners, the Indian shops, the traflSc poHce who wore little red tabs to indicate they spoke English—it was all familiar, and at the same time, strange.
Chu'Ko drove swiftly through the teeming traffic, pointing out temples, shops, a group of Red Guard Chinese schoolgirls marching in uniform, their broad young faces grim and serious beneath the banners they carried. Their eyes flashed defiance under their severely cut black hair.
"As long as these young people do not misbehave, it is permitted," Chu'Ko murmured.
They passed Six Cecil Street, the American Consulate, then swept with the traffic around the great padang onto Connaught Drive, beyond the government buildings and the fabled Raffles Hotel by the waterfront. The traveler's palms and jeweled green lawns, the wide-eyed tourists enjoying their slings and tea, were all familiar to Dureli But they had already gone by the exclusive shopping district where K Section's Control, established as the Great China Bazaar, waited for them. Dureli said nothing. He felt a slowly coiling tension in him. Chu'Ko's face was impassive, intent on
the traffic as he turned left across the bridges to Collyer Quay, then right toward the new Tiong Behru housing development beyond the Singapore River. In the back of the Cadillac, Denis Deakin faced the three girls from his jump seat and tried to engage Linda Riddle in conversation. His manner was diffident and awkward, and met with no success.
"Why don't you just cool it, Denis?" Linda murmured.
"I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't always be so sorry!" she snapped.
"Linda, I was just doing the work I'm trained to do. I've tried to help you since you asked for my help. I agree with all you say about the state of the world today. It's up to us to change things, that's true, but—"
'But,' " she mocked him. "Denis, you're so straight, you annoy me. If it weren't for you, in the first place "
Dureli stopped listening. Chu'Ko had turned the heavy car into a side road, now that they were free of city traflBc, and they were rolling along at a fast clip. Houses, fields, a stretch of woodland flashed by. They were heading north, toward the causeway at Johore in Malaya. He looked at the speedometer. It was going past seventy. Chu'Ko's face was a bland mask that told him nothing.
"That's enough," Dureli said. "Stop the car."
Chu'Ko tramped on the gas. It was his only response. The speedometer needle swung to eighty. Durell took out his snub-barreled .38 Smith and Wesson from his waistband. "Hold it, Chu'Ko. We're not going to Levy Lis-comb this way."
"No, sir, we are not."
The heavy car squealed around a curve. Chu'Ko handled it professionally. He did not seem to be impressed by Durell's gun. "If you kill me, sir, we will be wrecked and we shall all die."
"Is that what you want?"
"I have my orders."
"From whom?"
Chu'Ko said nothing.
"Do you work for Madame Hung?" Durell asked harsh-ly.
Fields and ditches went spinning by. The girls and Deakin were not aware of what was happening. Chu'Ko twisted the car into another road, a small and sandy series of ruts that snaked through undeveloped, jungly grov^h. Sunlight slashed and fought a series of lancing attacks through the green foliage overhead. The car bounced and slowed, inevitably, and Durell decided he would never have a better chance. He put his gun against Chu'Ko's head.
Assignment Nuclear Nude Page 5
