Assignment Nuclear Nude

by Edward S. Aarons

  "I know you are a man," she whispered, "who may not be bribed with money. But- "

  "But your beautiful body might tempt me?" He grinned, and did not like it.

  "I hope so," she said, controlling the temper that flickered in her pale eyes. "Not just to make a bargain, either, I hope. You are a most attractive man. Not handsome, I think, but you have .. . something, I don't know what it is..." She lifted her arms and clasped her hands behind his neck; it made him uneasy; she was a tall girl, and strong, and it could be a most dangerous grip if she knew how to apply it. She said quietly, "Sam, please, you must listen to me. They are going to kill you."

  "If they can."

  "You really must stay out of this."

  "Yankee, go home?"

  She whispered something in German in his ear. It was the sort of gutter proposition you could expect from a whore in Hamburg's red-Ught district. Her hands pulled his head down and her mouth found his, hungry and shockingly avid. No schoolgirl this, he thought wryly. He moved his head back just a little against the pressure of her clasped hands behind his neck. If she tightened her grip just a bit more, he decided, he would throw her overboard.

  When her lips left his, he said quietly, "Oh, you are a slut, Anna-Lise."

  "Only for you, Sam. I could be anything you like, just for you. Just tell me " Her body in its tiny swimsuit was soft and heated against his. "Why won't you leave this matter alone?"

  "Why do you want me to get out?"

  "I want to save your life."

  "That's a lie."

  "And to be sure Poppa will succeed."

  "In what?"

  "You know," she said.

  "He wants the Deakin formula for himself?"

  "Not exactly. A group of men at home "

  "In Germany?"

  "Yes. Poppa is being blackmailed to operate for them. They threaten to tell dirty lies about what he did during the Hitler years. I love him, and I promised to help him, in any way I could."

  "The other girls don't know this?"

  "Oh, no. They are so young and silly. . . ."

  "But why should I help you to help your father?"

  "I hoped—I thought you liked me, a little. And rather than have the Deakin data fall into Red China's hands, wouldn't it be better to have it in the West?"

  "You mean in West Germany."

  "Well, yes, but "

  "And not even that. In the hands of another cartel."

  "It would still be better "

  He asked abruptly: "Do you know of Madame Hung?"

  "I have heard her name mentioned. From Pan. It seems her aged father was once enamored of her, not too long ago, and perhaps did foolish things "

  "Is your father working with Madame Hung?"

  "Oh, no." Anna-Lise seemed genuinely shocked.

  "Take your hands away from me, Anna-Lise," he said.

  She laughed, deep in her throat, and moved so that he felt her proud breasts against him. "Don't you like that?"

  "I like it."

  "Don't you want me?"

  "But Charlie's right behind me "

  "Screw Charlie," she said.

  He broke her grip. As he snapped his head back against her locked knuckles, they came apart painfully and she cried out in sudden anguish, but he gave her no chance to recover. He caught her arms as they came down, slid his hands down to her wrists swiftly and forced them all the way down and back across her buttocks. She strained helplessly against him, swinging her head from side to side, her pale hair wild. Her eyes blazed with anger and open hatred.

  "Oh, I hope they do kill you!"

  "Why does my being in this bother you so much? And why did Riddle fire me, after he was so anxious to get me into it and pulled every Washington string he could to get me involved?"

  "I don't know, I don't know!"

  She tried to spit in his face, but he twisted her about and forced her down to her knees on the filthy sampan deck. She had to kneel with her back toward him. The sampan rocked wildly for a moment. He risked a glance at Charlie, but the little monkey-faced boatman stared straight ahead as if he were alone. He saw that Charlie had steered the craft into a twisting mirage of dark, silent channels that woimd among dozens of low, water-soaked islets. Some were dark and uninhabited, simple mangroves and a few palms fighting for survival in a drowning sea. On others there were lights on houses that stood on stilts, a small village, a number of boats, and the sound of battery-powered radios.

  Anna-Lise stopped struggling to escape her helpless and humiliating position.

  "Get me a line, Charlie," Durell said to the boatman. When the Chinese obeyed, it took only a minute or two to tie the girl securely. "When you put me ashore, go back to Singapore and take the young lady with you."

  "Chum, she paid me, she said she had a date with you. How was I to know you didn't want her?"

  "All right. How much farther do we have to go?'*

  "Almost there."

  "Can you put me ashore away from the public landing?"

  "It's dangerous. The Seven Isles has their own police "

  "Is it worth an extra fifty?"

  "Anything is worth fifty, chum. I'm just a poor heathen Chinese with a wife and all those children. Here we go."

  11

  No one knew anything for certain, Durell thought angrily. Not Levy Liscomb, nor Li Yon; not Washington and not himself. He knew he could leave routine security preparations to Levy. K Section Control could cordon off the airport, even arrange for a fighter escort for the Cathay Airlines jet that presumably would bring in the painting and the Deakin formula sometime tomorrow. But with Madame Hung in the operation, nothing could be that simple. Something would go wrong. The painting of the Nuclear Nude would certainly arrive in Singapore somehow. Where it was at the moment, whether Bombay or Bangkok or any place between here and Cairo, were unknown factors.

  Maybe it wouldn't even arrive here at all, Durell thought glumly. Madame Hung could be playing a cute shell game. It could have been diverted as far back as Havana. He couldn't trust any of the information he had. Riddle and his fellow merchant-pirates were clever and determined men. The hope for a world monopoly on an entirely new branch of nuclear science was enough motivation for them to use all the forces at their command. And their wealth could buy an army of myrmidons to follow their orders and keep the papers from coming here, after all.

  In a way, Durell depended on what he knew of the Hung woman. She had few flaws in her armor. But he did not think she would easily resist the temptation to have the Nuclear Nude in her possession, as a personal triumph, even for the short time necessary to advise Peking and ship it into Red China.

  But there were the three girls, too. Daughters against fathers. They weren't to be counted out. Surely they planned a move of their own to seize and destroy Deakin's work.

  Within all these conflicting forces there was jealousy and in-fighting, treachery and deceit. The very conflicts he had exposed could provide a certain inertia in the varied schemes that had been bom when the Deakin papers started on their trip around the world.

  The only element he could count on for single-minded and dedicated purpose in procuring the painting was Madame Hung. And she was most likely to succeed because of this.

  But again, no one knew anything for certain. Levy Liscomb thought she operated the Seven Isles as a cover for her espionage organization. Madame Hung acted directly for the L-5 department in Peking. Durell's mind turned back to the dossiers he had seen orginally. Riddle and his friends were all known art collectors. The Madame Hung known in Singapore was also famed as a collector. It could be a front, as he had already decided, with the paintings used to conceal data shipped on into Red China. It fitted the scheme of the Nuclear Nude canvas well enough. On the other hand, there was a small chance that he was off on a wild-goose chase.

  But he didn't think so.

  "Here we are," CharUe said suddenly. *'You sure you want to go ashore here?"

  Durell felt unsure of everything a
t the moment. But the best defense was to attack, if possible. If Madame Hung had her headquarters here, he had to know about it and try to break up any plans she had for the Deakin papers. But he was groping in the dark, with only a limited time in which to find the right channel among the crosscurrents in which he found himself.

  "Guards come," Charlie said. "You go now?"

  "Yes. Come back at dawn."

  "I be here. But will you be, chum?"

  "I'll do my best."

  Durell stepped ashore. The island where he landed was brilliantly lighted at the far end, about a quarter of a mile away. The main landing wharf was over there. But in the place where Charlie grounded his sampan there was only mangrove, the clack and rustle of a palm tree, the crunching steps of an approaching man. He waited to make sure that Charlie shoved off without setting Anna-Lise ashore with him. As the sampan vanished in the gloom, Durell turned inland, toward the lights.

  As far as he had been able to learn, the Seven Isles was a privately owned cluster of pleasure palaces pandering to all tastes, however innocent or perverted. According to Levy Liscomb, a man or woman could find any exotic excitement that suited his desire. Gambling, drugs, women, or boys, Durell thought grimly. These were the keys that loosened the tongue, fattened blackmail files, and eroded discipline for the gathering of information. Suddenly he was certain that Madame Hung was nearby.

  The big question was whether she knew he was here too.

  He found a footpath after a few moments and turned right. Wind bells tinkled in the night wind, and he saw a small replica of a Buddhist temple, lacquered red and black, with an ornate pavilion behind it that led to a humpbacked bridge. He looked back, but didn't see anyone behind him. The footsteps he had heard earlier were silent now, and he decided to ignore them. He had a bad moment crossing the empty bridge in pools of light from overhanging lanterns; but nothing happened. He heard voices, saw smartly dressed men and women, both Western and Oriental, strolling along beautifully decorated paths. It looked innocent enough. The islets were all small, and each seemed to specialize in varied entertainment. As casually as possible, he mingled with the crowds on the main island.

  Business was good, even at this early evening hour. The main dock where the clients debarked from Singapore was already humming with sampans, launches, small yachts and water taxis. A complex of buildings, restaurants and: pathways led away from the reception area, and Durell let the tide of men and women carry him along in any direction. There was an elaborate Chinese restaurant, filled with diners in formal clothes, and the doorman scowled at Durell's worn seaman's outfit. He made no, attempt to go in. Beyond the restaurant, an arched wooden bridge led to a low, rectangular gambling hall, where he was made more.welcome by the beady-eyed attendants. He wandered in, accepted a drink from a tray proffered by a surprisingly buxom Chinese girl in a topless outfit. She bounced provocatively when he dropped a sizable tip on the tray.

  "There's no charge for drinks, sir, from patrons." She had a wide smile. "What will be your pleasure?"

  "The wheels, honey, for starters."

  "Are you English, sir?"

  "American," he admitted.

  "But you look lonely. On the third isle, if you ask for Miss Jasmine "

  "Something special?"

  "You would be pleased with her. She's my cousin. Oh, very expert."

  "Maybe later," he said.

  He played roulette, dropped forty dollars to a wheel that was obviously crooked, won two hundred at a dice table, tried baccarat, paused at the blackjack table. It seemed no worse than any gambling casino anywhere in the world. The crowd, which was growing thicker, was polite and well-mannered, a cross section of Southeast Asia's Indian, Chinese, Eurasian and exiled Englishmen. The croupiers were quick and efficient, money was spent freely, the food and drink exquisite, served with the compliments of the house.

  He wandered back to the topless hostess. Her smile was quick and broad. "You go see Miss Jasmine now, sailor?"

  "I'd like to see the boss," he said quietly.

  Her smile vanished. "Is something wrong, sir?"

  "No, nothing at all. It's a social visit."

  "Do you know Mr. Bingham?"

  "I was referring to Madame Hung."

  Again her manner changed, as if a veil had been drawn across her wide face. "You must be mistaken, sailor."

  "Maybe." He was satisfied with her reaction. "I guess I'll go see Miss Jasmine."

  "Oh, good." She smiled again. "You will like her. She came recently from San Francisco. All kinds of tricks on the third isle."

  "I'm sure of that."

  He left her then, wondering how quickly she would sound an alarm. He touched his waistband to feel the assurance of his gun there. He had the feeling that unless he started something, his visit might be fruitless. If nothing came of it, he would have to start trouble somewhere.

  No one stopped him as he crossed the bridge to the third islet. There were bungalows here, among thick foliage, and the sound of a singsong girl, the tinkling notes of a samisen, a girl's laughter, another girl's quickly stifled scream. In contrast to what he had already seen, this sector was dim, almost dark. No one interfered with him. He kept going. The next island was very small, a long native house with thatched roof built on stilts. It was a cinema, and he glanced in at the movie being shown inside, felt his stomach squirm slightly at organic closeups, saw the rapt and avid faces of men and women in the audience reflected from the screen. He backed out quietly.

  Someone touched his shoulder.

  "Are you looking for me, sir?"

  He started to turn just a shade too quickly, checked himself, and saw a tall Chinese girl in a black and gold cheongsam. The dress was buttoned up demurely in its jeweled military collar about the throat, but the slit skirt exposed a firm thigh and curved hip.

  "Miss Jasmine?"

  "My cousin sent a message that a handsome American sailor was lonely. So I looked for you." She had bold and intelligent eyes, a ripe red mouth, ivory skin, beaded lashes. She laughed softly. "If you are just looking around, may I be your guide?"

  "My pleasure."

  "You don't care for the dirty pictures, do you? You like life, the real thing, don't you?"

  "You're a long way from the cable cars. Jasmine. How did you get here?"

  She laughed again. "I was kidnapped. Do you just want to sightsee? And maybe later "

  "Later, yes."

  "Good. Come along."

  He wondered what destination she had in mind for him. There was a subtle difference in each island as they progressed from one to the next. The lighting grew dimmer, the shadows darker, the faces of the people more distorted, sick with an inner illness and torment that demanded the panaceas of evil offered in this place. The next establishment was devoted to drugs; the Chinese-style building was in the form of an ancient inn with a courtyard, a walled compound, and an armed guard at the gate. Jasmine tugged him away.

  "What did you mean, kidnapped?" Durell asked.

  She ignored his question. "You're not a man who needs this sort of wickedness," she whispered. "I never come here." In the shadows, she looked beautiful and ineffably desirable, somehow. She watched two men and a woman hurry past them, their faces almost inhuman with desire.

  "What's over there?" Durell asked, pointing to a dark bridge over the last islet. The bridge was closed by a huge iron chain. Stone garden lanterns shed a yellow, fragile light over the path to it.

  "Nothing for you," Jasmine said quickly.

  "It's the last island, isn't it?"

  "It is central to all," she said. "It's the seventh isle, the one in the middle of all the others."

  "What's there?"

  "Nothing," she said again, and she seemed afraid. "Please come with me."

  "Is it reserved for special guests?"

  "You're pretty curious. I don't think you're just a sailor. Are you from the police? Are you fuzz?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Then who are you? You're
not just an ordinary customer." Jasmine seemed innocently puzzled.

  "When you came here, did you stop off at Cairo?" Durell asked.

  "What?"

  "Cairo."

  "Oh. Yes."

  "And from Cairo, how did you get here?"

  "It's a regular route."

  "Tell me."

  She looked at him with alarmed eyes. "You just don't want to go to bed with me, do you? I'm paid to entertain--"

  "Then go on back to your crib, Jasmine. Because I'm going over there, across the bridge."

  "I wouldn't," she said. "You see that chain? It-- "

  "Go on, honey. You're in enough trouble."

  The girl's eyes suddenly blazed. "Suppose I blow the whistle on you, fellow? The attendants will throw you out, they'll beat you and teach you a lesson !"

  She tried to slap him, and opened her mouth to scream, and Durell was certain that every bit of her act was on cue. He hit her, checking the blow just enough to keep from permanently injuring her. The girl's dark eyes flew wide open, her lipsticked mouth made a circle of utter astonishment, and then she fell, twisting sideways, trying to cling to him to keep from going down. He let her fall in the shadows of a tall oleander bush. All his senses shrilled warnings and alarms. He was sure he had been followed and watched from the moment the girl had picked him up. He wanted to run, to make for the bridge with the chain across it as fast as he could go.

  But he stood very still, a dark and heavy shadow, shocked and motionless.

  Jasmine's cheongsam had ripped as she fell. Her slit skirt had torn up beyond her waist, showing her long

  thighs and broad hips. The tunic top was also torn, and the buttoned Httle military collar was ripped open.

  The girl had been wearing a necklace under it.

  A gold chain gleamed about her neck, and a medallion peeped from between the swell of her breasts. Durell knelt and swiftly slipped it free of her warm flesh.