Assignment Star Stealers

by Edward S. Aarons

  But he was talking to a dead man.

  He searched the shabby clothes, which were quite dry. The other had arrived here before the rain. There was no identification. The labels had been removed from the coat and trousers. The wallet contained only some Swiss franc notes, fifty German marks, two crumpled American ten dollar bills. The coins in the trouser pockets made up an equal melange of international currency—French and Portuguese and some Moroccan dirhams.

  There was a key ring, with a house key, a car key, two other keys that looked ordinary and certainly did not fit the HV-4 lock that kept the case and its money chained to his wrist.

  He searched further, in the shirt pockets and jacket, then walked to the end of the gym and found the man's topcoat. An envelope with the insigne of the Royal Air Maroc line was in it. It held two tickets to Rabat. He went back and felt along the lining of the man's jacket, his trousers and cuffs and shirt-collar tabs.

  Nothing else.

  The airline tickets were for a flight leaving Zurich at six in the morning.

  He felt a shiver of apprehension. Someone, from the time he had arrived in Morocco until this moment in Zurich, was stubbornly determined to kill him.

  He took off the dead man's shoes and studied them, cut away part of the inner soles and used the dead man's knife to pry loose the heels.

  Nothing.

  18

  McFee said, "A pity, really."

  ^'Killing him was an accident, sir. But I can't say I'm all that sorry. I'm not sure whether he intended to take me with him to Morocco, really. I'm not sure what he ultimately meant to do, except that his job was to finish me. He had the knife ready—"

  *'Of course, Samuel. Sit down."

  "I'd rather stand."

  "Would you like a drink?"

  "No, thanks."

  "You still have the money in the case?"

  "Yes."

  "You're certain he didn't have the data we are prepared to buy?"

  "I couldn't search the whole school, sir. I tried. No data. I don't think he ever had the stuff. He mentioned this Irhan Kadir as a contact—he was pretty sure I'd never live to repeat it—and this Kadir is the same man Richard Coppitt spoke of to Amanda, in the desert. I went through the classrooms and poked into every desk in the building. It would take a dozen good, trained people working around the clock to see if the school building was reaUy clean."

  They were in a small workroom on the second floor over a jeweler's shop off the Schutzen Gasse, an emergency meeting place set up by Zurich Central. Durell could look down from the window at the wet, predawn street toward the Urania Bridge over the Immat River. The rain had changed to snow that swirled in fitful curtains, lifting now and then, but growing steadily heavier. The room was cold, and he felt chilled to the bone.

  "One thing—among others—is beginning to bother me, sir. About Hannibal Coppitt's death."

  McFee lifted gray brows. "Yes?"

  "Was it really an accident?"

  "The pilot of his helicopter died with him."

  "Was it confirmed as an accident?" Durell insisted

  "Ah. What worries you about all this?"

  "I don't know. He was a very wealthy, powerful man. He might have had enemies. He might have stood iq the way of ambitious subordiaates."

  "Stephenson?"

  "Maybe."

  "He is already complaining to Washington about you. But I'll check the helicopter crash, Samuel. Meanwhile, you have other tlungs to do."

  Durell lifted the heavy attache case. "I can't work with this damned thing on my wrist, sir."

  "Wear it a while. Use the plane ticket. They'll contact you. I suggest you go back to Amanda Coppitt. You don't mind that, do you?"

  "Sir—"

  "A pity you had to kill that man, Samuel. Do take care of the money, though. Our budget is strained. I want Richard Coppitt. I want him fast—and alive."

  "I'll have that drink now, sir," Durell said.

  19

  The African finches were singing their little hearts out, making flashes of bright color in their elaborate bamboo cages. Fez slept under the hot afternoon sun. Even the tourists abstained from the dubious bargains in the souks. At the end of the lane, a woman walked slowly through a dazzling pool of sunlight, her white hair like a mobile tent, her veil covering most of her face. Somewhere a donkey brayed, protesting labor in the heat.

  Olliver lifted his teacup with a precise gesture. His hand caressed the crouching girl at his feet. The girl's eyes never left Olliver's dour face. At the far end of the courtyard, framed by oleanders, was a mirhab, a niche denoting the direction of Mecca. Ceramic tiles pointed up a copper-lined door under a Moorish fretwork arch that once had opened into the women's quarters.

  "You look tired, Cajun," said Olliver.

  "It's a long time between a decent night's sleep."

  "Zurich kept you busy?"

  "More or less."

  Olliver sipped his mint tea. His bony fingers pulled the girl's black hair, not gently. "You take your permit seriously—to act with extreme prejudice, as the bureaucrats put it. You've now killed two men."

  Durell said, "I wish you'd stop fondling that child."

  "Scheherezahde is like a devoted puppy."

  "Both killings were accidents."

  Olliver was sardonic. "Don't know your own strength?"

  "Neither man was worth Dodd's life."

  Olliver finished his tea and pushed the girl aside with his cane. She moved reluctantly. His left leg was now only in a bandage. He sat enthroned among silk cushions, in the shadowy bower of his courtyard. He stared like a predatory bird at Durell's attache case.

  "Is that the money?"

  "It seems I'm stuck with it."

  "A full million?"

  "I watched it being counted."

  "And you don't have the key?"

  "No." Durell was aware of the key sewn into his shirt collar. "The man in Zurich, whoever he was, didn't have one, either. Care to split it all with me, Ollie?"

  "Love to. But I'd hate to be running for the rest of my life, old chap. No, thank you."

  "But someone got Dodd's million."

  "Do you really believe that?"

  Durell asked, "Where did Amanda go?"

  Olliver shrugged. "Don't really know. Agadir, I think. Skoll has gone there, too. She checked out only this morning."

  "And this Irhan Kadir?"

  "Not at the medersa. They're not talking there, not to infidels. Say they never heard of Kadir, so it's a dead end in Fez, Cajun."

  Durell had gone directly to the Palais Jamai on his return. The room clerk had been polite and apologetic. Madame Coppitt had left hurriedly, a few hours before, with all her luggage. No, she had not said she would return. Yes, sir, she was alone. No, sir, no messages.

  Olliver tapped the attache case on Durell's lap with a dirty fingernail. "What you have there, Cajun, is peanuts. PASS Base sent up two new sky spies in the past twenty-four hours with new traverse orbits. Cost a pretty penny to get them up just for this job of surveying a lot of sand south of here. So far, they've only gotten static. Our brainy friend has built some kind of a shield. PASS is talking about new orbits to avoid interception, but whatever our friends have, it's mobile, and can be used just about anywhere in the world."

  "Have you had any trouble with the local cops?"

  Olliver grinned. "I told you, I took care of it."

  "And Skoll?"

  "Well, you know what Skoll is after."

  "His boss is on his back," said Durell.

  "The Russians want Richard Coppitt. So does Peking. They think it'd be dandy if they could scoop up his method of intercepting data from all the spy satellites. Then they'd have an exclusive, until our lab boys or HCI develops a way to shield our twinkling little eyes in the sky. Can you imagine what would happen if Moscow could interdict our spy missions? We'd be positively blinded."

  "I haven't seen anything of Chu Li," Durell said.

  "Nor have I. It's a ra
ce between you and Skoll. We'd dearly love to have Richard back in our fold again." Olliver stared at the attache case. "Do take care of all that money, though."

  "Does it bother you, Ollie?"

  "Not really." Olliver pulled the little Arab girl against his knee. "I'm quite comfortable, you see."

  His room at the Hotel Raschid was empty this time. No one sprawled on his bed and pointing vodka bottles at him when he opened the door. He checked the quarters out more carefuUy than usual, but found nothing. For a minute he stood still, listening to the sounds from the alley below, the hotel courtyard, the bells of a water carrier. Something bothered him, like a feather tickling the back of his mind. He stared at the money case. He felt like a lamb, staked out as bait for the stalking tiger.

  The hotel manager came up with a copper tray holding a long-spouted coffee pot and sweet rolls. "Welcome back, Si Durell." On the tray was also a letter with the imprint of the Hotel Palais Jamai on the flap. "This is for you, sir. The rich American lady left it this morning."

  "Thank you."

  When the Frenchman was gone he studied the envelope, but it did not seem to have been opened. The writing was vertical and round, school-girlish. It was from Amanda.

  Darling,

  I must go to Agadir. Please come there as soon as you can. It is imperative. I need your help. You have made me happy again—something I thought was not in my future, ever again. A

  Durell burned the note in an enameled ashtray, then took off his shirt and opened his suitcase and found a razorblade. He slit the shirt collar and took out the small, elaborate HV-4 key and unlocked the chain on his wrist. It was a relief to rid himself of the case and the million dollars. There was room in his suitcase for the attache case, and he put it there, and rubbed his free wrist gratefully.

  They will notice it's gone, he thought.

  They'll come after me soon enough.

  20

  Hanno, the Carthaginian, first charted the Atlantic coast toward Agadir. It had taken courage in those ancient days to explore the hostile shore. For several hundred miles south of Gibralter the ocean sparkled innocently against shining beaches, but under the surface tidal rips made any landing dangerous. Much later, the Beni Wattas allowed Christian colonies at Safi and Agadir, touching off a holy war by the Saadians against the Spanish and Portuguese forts that clung precariously to the coast. The massacres gained wealth for the Saadians that rivaled the sumptuous Merinides in Granada. Still, the ocean mocked men implacably. Earthquakes leveled the fishing villages. Farms were located warily some distance from the shore, where sand dunes and brown hills and stunted shrubs bent before the persistent sea wind.

  Agadir was rebuilt since the disastrous quake of 1960. Although it was a long trip by "Pullman du Sud" buses from Casablanca, there were tourists in the sprawling new hotel where Durell checked in. He had chosen to fly in by Caravelle via Marrakcsh, circling over the Doukkala plain and Sidi Kaouki with its woods of arborvitae trees, then descending over the wide, empty beaches, ruined watch towers, and occasional cliflfs footed in foaming white breakers.

  At two o'clock in the afternoon he was settled in the spanking new Auberge de la Plage. His room faced south, with a fine view of the bay and the Founti kasbah. The sea sparkled beyond a lush garden of palms and geraniums that swayed in the cool ocean wind. There was a swimming pool, a bar, tennis courts, a golf course, a thatched shack where snorkling and undersea fishing equipment could be hired and shops filled with Moroccan and West African tourist goods. Very plush, very modem. You could be anywhere in the world and not know it, from the universal sameness of modern hotel architecture.

  He showered, changed his clothes, and took the attache case down to the lobby. The clerk was French.

  "M'sieu Durell?"

  "I'd like to put this in your safe, please."

  "Certainly. What value, sir?"

  "None, really. Just some personal papers."

  Durell waited while the safe was opened, the case stored inside, then locked again. He wondered if it had ever held a million dollars before. The clerk's name was Armand. He was tall and slim with a tidy little moustache, and either his mother or father had surely been Arab.

  "Your room is comfortable, sir? You will find our room service excellent. Anything you like, we can deliver." Armand's thin moustache wriggled with his desire to please.

  Durell asked about a car rental, arranged it, and said, "And I'd like to see Madame Coppitt. She's reeistered here?"

  "Oh, yes." The moustache vibrated again. "She has the royal suite. We call it that—^it is so luxurious. But alas, she is not here at the moment. She has gone swimming, I believe, at the Sidi Mabrouk Beach."

  "Alone?"

  "The beach is well protected. American women— especially rich American women—are very independent, are they not? It is only two miles from here, off the road to Inezgane. Back toward the airport, where you landed, sir."

  Durell left, dazzled by the brilliance of Armand's white teeth.

  She was the only one in swimming. The beach was pure white sand, a crescent invaded by the rich surf. Her arms flashed white against the blue, and she swam with a strong stroke. There was a yellow terrycloth robe near the water's edge, a small umbrella stabbed into the beach, a handbag, a wide straw hat with a yellow silk band to match the robe, and rubber sandals. An Arab woman in the uniform of the Auberge de la Plage stood anxious guard over Amanda's belongings. Parked by the road was her Mercedes 220 SE.

  "M'sieu Durell?" said the maid on guard. "Madame has been waiting for you."

  Amanda saw him and called out, her voice light over the roar of the surf and the calls of the gulls. She rode in with a comber, her coordination nice and strong, coasting as if on a surf board. Wading out of the water, her tall body was aglisten with the salt drops on her skin. The maid hurried to her with the yellow robe, but she ignored it and ran toward Durell.

  "Oh, Sam!"

  She hugged and kissed him, not like a long lost sister. He was aware of her immediate wants through her wet, slim-waisted body. Her legs were long, her breasts high and firm in the vestigial bikini, her hips strong and womanly. "Sam, darling, I'm getting you all wet. But don't mind." She laughed and hugged him again and then stood back to gaze at him, wringing her wet red hair, her head cocked to one side. "Oh, you look good to me!"

  "Need I say the same? You're different, Amanda."

  "How, different?"

  "All in less than two days."

  "Well, you made a new woman out of me."

  "I'm glad."

  "You found my note, of course. You look wonderful, Sam." Her green eyes caught the sunlight and Hung it back. "I can't wait, darling."

  "That's what I mean."

  "What?"

  "You've changed," he said, and they laughed.

  Money can kill or cure evil, he thought. Her suite at the Auberge consisted of a long living room with a curving glass facade that yielded a remarkable view of the white town and the sea and the bay. There was a private terrace, champagne in a bucket, an iced can of beluga caviar. The air was scented with something spicy, an odor of the East. Amanda dismissed the maid, closed the heavy, silken gold draperies, and said, "A shower, first of all." She undid the bra of her bikini, moved toward him with proud breasts, kissed him, and wriggled out of the bottom of her tiny swim suit, kicking it aside with fine disdain for the wet stain it made on the Roman-striped silk settee, then headed for the pink-tiled bath. Over her shoulder, she said, "Do you think I'm shameless, Sam, darling?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you like it?"

  "Yes."

  "Open the caviar. I'm all sticky with salt."

  Durell walked toward the bedroom.

  Later, with the sea wind on their naked bodies, he lighted a cigarette for her and she said, "Sam, I feel as if you're a Prince Charming who kissed me awake. I've been asleep so long! It's like a miracle. I'm alive and young after all. I can't stay in the grave with Hannibal. I miss him and mourn him, but now—well,
it's different. I look to the future instead of the past."

  Her body was long and warm and soft against his. Some tourists called distantly from the tennis courts. By turning his head, he could see the slender minaret of a mosque against the fading blue of the sky.

  Amanda said, "You were right, of course. You saw it at once. I've changed. I know who and what I am, now."

  "In what way?"

  "I'm Amanda Coppitt. I am HCI. I'm not a sad little girl from Bayou Peche Rouge any more. I've had a wonderful life so far. Why was I raging against the heavens? Hannibal was good to me, and I loved him and was always faithful. You're the first since Han. Do you believe that?"

  "Yes."

  "Kiss me."

  He kissed her.

  "Again." Her eyes glowed green. "I love you, Sam DureU."

  "No, you don't."

  "Why not? After aU this—"

  "You're still off balance. The pendulum just swung the other way. I thought you and Gary Stephenson—"

  "Don't mention him." She had stiffened beside him. "I'm very annoyed with Steve. I've decided not to take orders from him any more. He's very angry about you, too. But there will be no more, 'Sign this, Amanda. Do that, Amanda. Go here and go there, Amanda. It's for the good of the company, dear. You don't have to read it all, Amanda, it's just another contract. Sign it like a good girl.' " She sat up in bed and hugged her knees. "Well, I'm not going to be like that any more."

  "How are you going to be?"

  "I'm going to be me. I'm going to do what Hannibal always urged me to do—^to enjoy everything he gave me. And you and I—"

  "I'm not for sale, Amanda."

  She looked down at him and smiled and touched his chest. "Where did you get all those scars?"

  "Occupational hazards," he said.

  "What occupation? What exactly do you do, Sam?"

  "Right now, I'm looking for Richard, your stepson, the wayward genius."

  She laughed. "You don't smile much, do you?" "Not when I'm working."

  Her body was suddenly taut and proud. "Do you consider this working, now? Going to bed with me? Because I suddenly feel free, as if you raised me from a tomb, and because Tm silly, crazy, awful-foolish in love with you? It isn't as if we'd just met. I've known you ever since I was a little girl. Is making love to me part of your job, Sam?"