Assignment Nuclear Nude

by Edward S. Aarons

  Durell used the code, identifying himself as Broker Two, and foimd that none of his precautions were necessary.

  "Hell, Cajun, Washington's been ringing bells all over the place, looking for you."

  "Instructions?"

  "They still stand. Just worried about you, is all. What can I do?"

  "Identify a missing flight that may have left your town, destination Singapore, any time in the last twenty-four hours." Durell described the emblem used by Hung's private cargo carriers, and Sweeney thought about it for a moment and said, "I've seen the ships. Converted World War Two Mitchells, believe it or not, old bombers sold off years and years ago. Sure, I know 'em. But none are ever flight-scheduled for Singapore."

  "You're sure of that?"

  "They come from the west—India, sometimes Burma— and then they take off for a place called Duphonong, down the line."

  "How far down the line?"

  "It's a former rubber plantation. Maybe eighty miles from your bridge to the mainland." There was a pause. "Hold on, I'll check."

  "I'm in a hurry," Durell warned.

  "Doing the best I can, Cajun."

  There was another wait. It was definitely growing lighter down on the street. In a few more minutes, the dawn would come up. It might complicate things, Durell thought. He felt a squirm of impatience and worry in the pit of his stomach, and he thought of Pan and wondered if he had given this matter the wrong priority, and then he told himself nothing could be done about it and he couldn't be in two places at once and to hell with it. Sweeney came back, the telephone line crackling and uncertain from Kuala Lumpur.

  "Got it. One of the Mitchells filed a flight plan for Duphonong at seventeen hundred hours yesterday afternoon."

  "Did it arrive?"

  "The field doesn't know."

  "Any way to find out?"

  "Doubtful. But I'll try. I'll call you back. Where can I reach you, Cajun?"

  "Duphonong," Durell said.

  He found a crumpled, detailed aerial map of the southern penmsula of Malaya among the charred debris that cluttered the wrecked oflBce. There was enough daylight seeping through the shattered windows for him to find his objective on the sodden, smoke-stained sheet. South of the island of Singapore were the Strait of Malacca and the beginning of the long chain of the Indonesian archipelago. Directly north, however, was the much narrower strait of Johore and the mainland of Malaya. The Bukit Timah road led almost due north out of the municipal area of Singapore, paralleling the railroad, to the causeway across the Johore Straits and the town of Johore Bahru. From there, the roads fanned out, good and bad, north and west, and after a few moments of search, Durell found Duphonong. The airstrip indicated there might or might not be able to land a Mitphell. But it was the only possible place that could, short of the International at Singapore.

  He closed the safe, closed the sagging door to Levy Liscomb's oflBce, and went down the shaky stairway and across the debris of the fire to the street.

  "I was getting worried," Deakin said from the back of the taxi. He was making progress. Linda was asleep in his arms.

  "Let's find Pan," Durell said. "Time is wasting."

  Even at this hour, the courtyard tenements surrounding Li Yon's rabbit-warren apartment were astir with the noise and smells of Ufe. Old men stood in the first shafts of sunlight that slanted into the courtyard; children bawled and yelled; women with unkempt hair hurried about their breakfast errands. Everything seemed normal. There was nothing suspicious.

  Durell told the taxi driver to wait. Linda was asleep in the back, and Deakin looked content to hold her in his arms for eternity. He went into the courtyard, turned up the concrete stairs, and went down the hallway that smelled of cooking and human garbage and saw that Li Yon's dark-brown apartment door stood partly ajar.

  He paused and listened and touched the door with his fingertips and pushed it farther open and then he Ustened again. Nothing. He stepped in, moving sideways, and flattened against the wall to the right. The inner hallway stretched into shadows that the dawn light had not yet penetrated. An ornamental chair stood askew on the threadbare hall-runner, as if someone had passed it in a hurry and bumped into it. He looked into the first room, which was the kitchen. Everything had been thrown about in a mess of pots and pans and hnen and broken china. It would have made some noise, Durell thought, but the neighbors would have minded their own business. He went down the hallway, checking the room where he and Deakin had slept and then the one where the girls had bunked. There was no sound of movement except for the sudden screech of a parrot in a cage and then the twittering of another cageful of Java sparrows.

  There was a dead cat, its throat cut, on the straw rug of the common room where a hi-fi stereo set had been Li Yon's pride and joy. Durell could not think of any reason for anyone to kill the cat that way. He halted.

  "Pan?" he called softly.

  His voice seemed very loud in the inner stillness. And he caUed, "Li Yon?"

  She came at him from the outer gallery that overlooked the courtyard—a small, gray-haired Chinese woman with madness in her eyes, a kitchen knife in her hand. Her neat white jacket was stained with blood and dust, and her face was misshapen by bruises that almost closed one eye. The knife was bloody, too.

  Durell just had time to step aside as she drove the blade at him. Her breathing was a sob and a hiss. He caught her wrist and twisted, not wanting to hurt her, but her years as a wash-amah had given her a tough and stringy muscularity.

  "You kill her, you kill me, Durell!" she sobbed.

  He forced her wrist up and behind her back and spoke quietly. "Take it easy, Li Yon,"

  She struggled like a tired little cat herself in his grip. He squeezed the wrist bones and the knife clattered to the floor, and when she heard it fall, she went limp and sagged to her knees, small and hunched, her gray hair loose of its normally neat gray bun, her head bowed and her hands covering her face. Durell drew a long, tired breath.

  "Where is everyone, Li Yon?"

  "They come. They take. They beat me. I no care."

  "Who came, Li Yon?"

  "Gangsters. Bad mens. Your friends!" she wept.

  "They took Pan?"

  "My darling Pan, yes."

  "And Anna-Lise?"

  "She gone long time ahead."

  "Why did they beat you, Li Yon?"

  "Why?" She lifted her seamed and crampled old face to stare at him with amazement. "Because I fight for my darling Pan, that why. I want to kill those bad mens."

  "Did they hurt her?"

  "No. I no see that."

  "Did Pan fight with them, to get away?"

  "No chance."

  "But did she struggle? Think about it, Li Yon. I know you're upset, and you were frightened when they came in here. Try to remember exactly how it was. Did Pan struggle with the men who took her away?"

  Li Yon whispered, "No, she just a child, my little darling, what can she do against mean and killing men?"

  "She didn't fight at all, or try to run?"

  "No chance."

  "But you tried to fight them," Durell pointed out. "Why didn't she?"

  "Pan just a child "

  "She's not a child, Li Yon."

  " she innocent and she afraid "

  "She's not innocent," Durell said. "She went over to Madame Hung long ago. She's been the cause of most of my troubles."

  Li Yon had a telephone in the ramshackle apartment, and somehow the predators who had torn the place apart had overlooked pulling it out by the wires. The wash-amah stopped her moaning and angry denials of Pan's guilt long enough to give him the telephone number of the suburban villa where Han Uved. Durell looked at the battered wall clock as he waited for his ring to be answered. It was just after six in the morning. He felt as if the night had been an eternity.

  A servant's voice sleepily answered and argued about waking his master, and Durell gave his name and waited for more minutes than he cared to before the careful enunciation of Mr. Han's Oxo
nian English came on the receiver.

  "Mr. Durell?"

  He wasted no time. "Is your daughter there, Mr. Han?"

  "No, sir."

  "Madame Hung's got her," Durell said. "You haven't been very sharp, Mr. Han. You thought you'd let matters take their course, and probably take me out of the picture. But I'm still very much alive, you see. And I believe I know where to pick up the painting we're all looking for."

  The elderly Chinese said in a strange voice: "I truly thought you were dead, sir."

  "So much for Five Ruby loyalty."

  "There was nothing we could do, if you persist in putting your head in the tiger's jaws."

  "You don't seem to be disturbed by what I said about your daughter."

  "Because I think you lie, Mr. Durell. There have been many rumors of a disaster at the Seven Isles."

  "That was me," Durell said. "Is Riddle still with you?"

  "Yes. But Mr. Fazil flew home."

  "And von Golz?"

  "Here. With his daughter."

  "Good. Now do we make a deal, or do we go our separate ways?"

  "I am anxious to compromise with you, sir."

  "No compromise. Your daughter for the painting. That's the deal. Nothing else. No ifs, ands or buts."

  The Chinese spoke very softly. "But you need my help in what you intend to do?"

  "I need some Five Ruby men you can trust. Who work for you, and not the Hung organization. Are there any left?"

  "Quite a few." Han could not hide the satisfaction in his reply. "How many men do you wish to command as a Tiger General for us?"

  "Is Red Rod still safe?"

  "Ah. You remember him? Yes, he is loyal."

  "Let him pick half a dozen. And I'll need some big cars. And weapons." Durell paused. "On second thought, make it two dozen men, as many cars as you need. All armed. We'll meet across the causeway in one hour. Is that possible?"

  "Red Rod can do it, yes. If I command him to do so. But I am not anxious to have the Five Rubies torn apart to suit your personal aims."

  "You've lost the game already, Mr. Han. All you can save is your daughter. If you don't already know it, she sold out sometime in the last few months to Madame Hung. I don't know what motivated her. Maybe she's playing her own game. But we haven't much time. Meet me at the Willow City in twenty minutes."

  "Alone?"

  "Bring Von Golz and Riddle with you." "You give orders quite casually, Mr. Durell." "If you don't help, I'll take command anyway. Red Rod will listen to me, not to you. Then your whole presence in the Five Rubies goes up in joss smoke."

  "I see. It will be arranged." "The Willow City. Twenty minutes," Durell said again.

  He hung up. There was a Hght film of sweat on his hands as he turned away from the telephone.

  18

  There were no windows in the Five Rubies lodge room. A red dragon lantern over the altar shed a glow over the polished benches and high, carved chairs of the Tiger Generals. Stale incense cloyed the air. The sounds of hawkers and passersby in the street outside the Cathay Cinema were abruptly shut off as Durell closed the door behind him. Deakin and Linda were safely in a taxi parked in an alley nearby.

  A light suddenly bloomed directly over him, spotting him on the dusty carpet of the gloomy room. Then another light showed a skeletal figure seated in the headman's chair.

  "Sam Durell, my Tiger friend, it has been many years."

  Durell stood still. "Many years. Red Rod."

  "We did many good things together, once. With good men. But we were younger then." Red Rod spoke gently. "Gold is plentiful, compared to gray-haired friends. I remember the Twenty-four gang, subsidized from Peking, in the Malay jungle."

  "You saved my life then," said Durell.

  "And you saved mine. The parang that cut me left its mark on my face and soul."

  Red Rod stood up. He unfolded himself in a two-dimensional manner, his thin frame towering, his shaved head turned to show the scar on his cheek that he had mentioned. Durell moved to meet him, and they shook hands. Red Rod's fingers were like wood, hard and calloused. His eyes, slanted and sunken in his yellow face, were fathomless, except for small red glitterings reflected from the dragon lamp.

  "You are still in your business, Durell?"

  "Yes."

  "I am no longer active. But Mr. Han asked me to meet you. Old friends are rare. Debts must be paid. I will pay mine, since you need help. There are cars and boats ready, as you requested, and twenty men, selected by myself."

  "Do you know Madame Hung?"

  "I have heard things of her, and wish never to hear more." Red Rod smiled and showed long, carnivorous teeth. The red glow deepened in his eye sockets. "I understand we may go into the jungle against Five Ruby traitors."

  "And Madame Hung."

  Red Rod nodded his shaven head. "We will do as you wish. My 'snakes'—my informers—are asking many questions. In time, we shall have the answers. Be seated and drink tea."

  "There isn't all that much tune. Red Rod."

  "Be at ease."

  A woman came in on wooden clogs that made no sound on the dull carpet in the lodge room. She handed Durell a fragile teacup, using both hands as a gesture of courtesy. Red Rod waved her away, rejectmg his cup. He was, or had been, in command of a special "killer squad" of the Five Rubies, holding a position as military affairs officer in the days of Communist penetration into Malaya. The five Tiger Generals had been under him, each with a squad of killers; but that had been many years ago, Durell reflected. He did not know what was left inside the gaunt Chinese with the hollow eyes today.

  Other men drifted into the room, one by one, as he sipped the fragrant tea. Red Rod smiled sadly. Obviously, with only two of the Tiger General's chairs taken, the others had defected to Madame Hung.

  "We have the usual arms," Red Rod said quietly. "Bicycle pumps, parangs, some pistols, motorcycle chains trimmed with razor blades—you remember, Durell?"

  "Good only for street fighting, not the jungle."

  "We have acid bombs made by puncturing light bulbs and filling them with hydrochloric acid."

  "Not enough."

  "Four Israeli Uzi nine-millimeter submachine guns, two Swedish K's, five Madson PPS-forty-ones, the Russian assault weapons. Better?" Red Rod made his smile a grimace. "And here is Mr. Han."

  Durell had not heard the wispy old Chinese enter. Han wore fine English jodhpurs and riding boots and carried a short crop, which he twitched in his delicate hands. He might have been off for a casual canter along the bridle paths. Durell noted the trembling of the thin mandarin beard again.

  "Red Rod, are these men all we have?" Han asked.

  "Others are getting boats and cars to cross the strait."

  "Are they armed?"

  "Yes."

  Han turned to Durell in the reddish gloom. "And you know where to get the painting?"

  "It will be a race for it."

  "I have telephoned to Kuala Lumpur. It is rumored that a plane crashed only a few miles from Duphonong, in a bad rainstorm. I have the coordinates on a chart."

  "Let me have them," Durell said. But Han hesitated.

  Red Rod spoke in his gentle voice. "Do give them to Mr. Durell."

  The old man looked at the thin scattering of silent gunmen in the lodge room, then took an envelope containing a U.S. Air Force chart from his riding jacket and handed it to DurelL "A diflacnlt place to reach. Mountains, you know."

  "Can you get jeeps, a command car?" Durell asked Red Rod.

  "It has been attended to.'*

  Mr. Han sat down and stared at the dragon lamp. He looked shrunken and defeated, and he whispered carefully: "Can you tell me for certain if Sunflower is dead?"

  "Who?"

  "The woman you know as Madame Hung."

  "Is that her name?"

  "It is a name I gave her. She was—she is my last love, you see. The last ember in a bed of burned charcoal." Han briefly lifted a fragile hand. "But she is in league with devils. She will
never die. Is she truly dead?"

  "I don't know, truly."

  Han shivered. "And what you said about my daughter— m league with her?"

  "Perhaps she was misled, youthful, idealistic "

  "Or do the girls still have their own plans?"

  "I'm not sure," Durell said.

  The old man stared. "You trust no one, do you?"

  Durell looked at the tall, skeletal Red Rod. "I trust him. My life is his. His life is mine." He paused again. "Where is Riddle, Von Golz, and the German girl?"

  "They wait for us, at the assembly point."

  Durell nodded. "Then let's not waste more time here."

  The heat was much heavier on the mainland across the causeway into Malaysia than on the island of Singapore. Only a short distance from the tempering sea wind, the air turned humid and oppressive. Durell felt the sweat start out of him. It was nine o'clock before the little convoy assembled under the silent rows of trees on an abandoned coconut plantation. The shadows were gloomy under the motionless palms, and a grayness seemed to fill the air. There had been no problems in avoiding the border checkpoints on the beach where the boats crossed, and the cars used by others on the causeway had been given only a routine scanning. The two jeeps and command car, with all the weapons hsted by Red Rod, were waiting for them.

  Durell chose an Israeli Uzi for himself, admiring its clean simplicity. Near the command car was a famiUar trio—Riddle, Von Golz, and Anna-Lise. They, too, were dressed in tough jungle clothes for the occasion.

  Von Golz began heavily: "So. It seems you work for us after all, Herr Durell. We are very pleased."

  "Think again. None of you gets the painting. My deal with Riddle was off when he allegedly fired me."

  Von Golz coughed. "Surely we can come to agreement. We must be alUes." He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "So many of us have selfish motives, nein? Can you trust the Chinese? And they are so divided. Can you trust this—this Red Rod? He makes me shake, he looks so dangerous. And our daughters—Anna-Lise and her friends—I think they have their own plans yet, if we recover the painting. And Riddle "

  "You walk in a quicksand of suspicion, Herr Von Golz."