Assignment Star Stealers

by Edward S. Aarons

  "Von Handel liked comfort. An amateur archeologist," SkoU grunted. "He likes the good life, even if it takes slaves to build it for him."

  Durell moved quickly along one wall of the gemlike garden, then plunged into the shade of the grape arbor. Amanda was close on his heels. Under the columned arcade was a large blue-painted door studded with brass nails. He tried the heavy latch. It was open. Two narrow, barred windows were on either side. He went in first, his weapon ready. There was a large, cool, white-walled room, hung with paintings in great splashes of color, a high bookcase filled with bright dust jackets, a long desk against the narrow slits of barred windows opposite.

  "To the left," Skoll whispered. "This is where Von Handel 'entertained' me. If you give me a gun—"

  Durell crossed the Bokhara carpet soundlessly, waved Amanda back, and flattened beside the opposite doorway. A man's crisp, impatient, angry voice snapped commands. Another door slammed elsewhere. Durell put his hand on the iron latch, nodded to Amanda and SkoU, and burst inside.

  Von Handel was alone at a large desk. Behind him were banks of files, three monitor screens, a small computer. A row of push buttons were set into the mahogany top of the desk. The small man jerked around, lunged across the desk to push the buttons—and froze as Durell leveled his gun.

  "Just like that, Von Handel. Don't move."

  "Who—who are you? Durell? I've seen your dossier— and the lady's, too." Von Handel Ucked his lips and leaned back. His pale gray eyes were strangely blank behind gold-rimmed glasses. His face was the color of putty. He spread his arms wide on the desk, nodded to Amanda, murmured, "Frau Coppitt," and said to Durell, "You are all in serious difficulties, I fear. You have broken in here without invitation, violated international boundaries—I am a guest of this nation, you see—and seriously injured several of my people. Grave offenses."

  'Let me kill the arrogant little bastard," Skoll muttered. ''Does he not know everything here is finished, kaput? We will have troops here soon enough—*'

  "And they will obey my orders, not yours," Von Handel snapped. His thin lips scarcely moved when he talked. "I know you have Richard Coppitt. We know everything. So you came here to pick my brains, like desert hyenas, picking up my machines, my equipment, all my records, and data?"

  ^'Exactly," Durell said.

  The man laughed. ''And you and this Communist here will amicably divide the information? Are you mad?"

  "We'll come to an agreement," DurelJ said quietly. "We're taking you back to the States with us, too. Not just as a defector and traitor, stealing our classified information to blackmail the United States government, but as a murderer."

  "Ah." Von Handel was calm. "Murder?"

  "You planned, organized, arranged, and caused Mr. Hannibal Coppitt's 'accidental' death. But it was not an accident," said Durell.

  Amanda drew in a thin, long breath. Durell went on, "You murdered him to get him out of the way and gain access to HCI satellite data, to get Richard's personal experimental Gits that let you go on this star-stealing business."

  "One man's death may bring us a better world."

  "And millions in your pocket," Durell added.

  "And peace to the planet," Von Handel retorted. "Will we have peace if either you or Skoll gain exclusive use of my mechanisms? Never! You will destroy everything!"

  "So would you, if you can't have your way."

  "Yes. Perhaps."

  "Let me kill him," Skoll urged. "He will trv to divide us. Cajun. He will succeed. A very smooth talker, this old Nazi. They always were. Quick to excuse themselves, to pose as innocents, while blood drips from their hands."

  Von Handel's eyes flickered with fear as he regarded the big Russian. "Untermensch,'' he muttered contemptuously. "Subhuman Slav! You are all dead—all of you. It

  has already been reported to me that you have the brilliant young Richard. How can you escape from me now? You are like innocent flies in my web. How foolish of you to try to overcome me in this reckless fashion, just yourselves, against all my dedicated men!"

  "Most of your men are simple technicians. You have only a dozen masquerading as R'guibats, perhaps one or two renegade Tauregs," Durell bluffed. "You've lost the game, Handel. In half an hour you'll have a dozen para-troop planes dropping soldiers all over this place."

  Von Handel stared, and then his face changed slowly. A glint of madness shone behind his round spectacles. "Without intelligence, the world powers are blind," he whispered. "A blind man can be led anywhere, dependent on those who take him by the hand. I am such a man, with a vision. Step by step, my master plan can unfold." His face was transfixed. His voice grew harsh, grating. "With money and power, one can manipulate geopolitical events as one desires. It does not matter if my name remains unknown to the world's people. They are all sheep, in any case. But to rule, to pull the strings, to lead you big, stupid powers around by the nose, to be sought after and to be obeyed, Herr DureU—"

  "You've lost it all," Durell said quietly. "Get up and come with us."

  "No! Do you think I was not prepared for disaster as well as for success? One must work with humans, after aU—stupid animals, more often than not, who make errors even I cannot correct. No, I do not lose! You and your Russian friend are the losers. It would be justice if I let you both struggle for the machines and the data I have here. But I will not give you even that small satisfaction. The moment the alarm came that you had penetrated this place, I set in motion the destruct mechanisms. There are only minutes left—"

  SkoU roared in frustration and lunged across the room, dragging the German from behind his desk. His hands closed on Von Handel's neck like the jaws of a nutcracker. Durell jumped after him, tried to wrench the scientist free. Amanda was very still, her eyes dulled by shock. She stared at Von Handel with utter loathing.

  ''Kill him, Skoll," she murmured. "If he murdered Hannibal, kill him!"

  Skoll's enormous strength wrestled Von Handel out from behind the desk and hurled him across the room. Durell jumped between them, slammed his gun across Skoll's head. It did not even stagger the infuriated Russian.

  And then it was too late.

  Von Handel had not been bluffing.

  There came the muffled boom of an explosion somewhere below, in the tunnels leading to the monitor control rooms. There were thin cries, shrieks of pain. Another explosion. And another. Suddenly from the bank of files and scanning monitors in this room came a sharp cracking sound, a gush of flame and smoke, a muffled thump. In an instant, the room was filled with choking black fumes that drove them backward.

  "Sam!" Amanda called.

  Skoll's great fist was battering Handel's face beyond recognition in his furious frustration. Durell slammed his gun across Skoll's head again, and the big Russian shook his head, as if to get rid of a gnat. But then he suddenly let go, and Von Handel slid to the floor, suddenly boneless, empty. From other parts of the complex came shrill cries of panic. Durell looked down at Handel's bluish face and lips.

  "He's dead," he said. *'He had a cyanide capsule."

  "Lost, all lost!" Skoll's huge frame shook with anger. "They were alw^ays pigs. If they couldn't have the candy, no one could. Gotterdammerung. Destroy the prize, rather than let others have it." The Russian looked up with small eyes glinting with rage, like a trapped boar's. "Now the question is how^ to get out of this rat's nest. Surely there is nothing left to salvage here. Von Handel would be efficient with his damnable bombs."

  Amanda spoke quietly. "If you don't think it's significant, Sam—I'm getting to know how you think, you see—I have a confession to make." She lifted her gun, then lowered it slowly. **I've had over 400 hours of flying a helicopter. Hannibal insisted I have a license. I know the machines down on the pad backward and forward— mechanically as well as how to pilot them. That's the way Hannibal was. I could take one apart and put it together again." Her eyes regarded Durell with candor. "Maybe you'll now suspect me of killing my husband and putting on a big hand-wringing act to cover my w
ish to run HCI with Steve."

  Durell shook his head.

  "You can really fly one of those choppers?"

  "I can. ReaUy."

  "Then let's go. There's nothing here for us."

  30

  A THICK plume of smoke stained the white desert sky above the ruined base. Flames still erupted from some of the entrances to the complex. There had been no trouble, in all the confusion, in getting the chopper up from the pad. Several men had tried to rush them, to get aboard and escape, but a burst from Durell's rifle sent them scurrying for cover. The lift-off was a bit shaky as Amanda handled the controls. Durell checked the fuel gauges and saw they were full, and decided there would be no problem returning to Agadir, or somewhere so they could find ground transportation.

  "The truck, fiirst," he said. "We want Kadir and Richard."

  Skoll, on the seat with Amanda, with Durell in the back with the weapons, suddenly stiffened. "You have the young man with you?"

  "He's all we could salvage—no thanks to you. You slapped him around and knocked his brains loose."

  "He escaped from us—but he will recover?"

  "We'll do the best we can."

  Skoll said softly, "He could rebuild everything.*'

  Amanda lowered the chopper in a cloud of dust thirty yards from the truck that had brought them here. Irhan Kadir ran toward them. He jabbered in Arabic, forgetting his English as he pointed in excitement to the smoke rising from the low hill. Something had gone wrong with the antennae mechanism, or the wrong button had been pushed, and now the two towers rose into the sky. As Durell got out of the helicopter, he saw flame gush from around the base, and the metal probes collapsed slowly, with a distant roar, and then the dust of their destruction was lost in the belching smoke.

  "Si Durell, you will take me with you?" Kadir asked anxiously.

  "Of course. How is Richard?"

  "No change. His mind is not in this world."

  It took only moments to improvise a stretcher and carry Richard to the chopper. He stared at them vacantly, his young scholar's face devoid of intelligence.

  Skoll clucked. "I am sorry for this. We caught up with him and were lucky enough to separate him from his guards. But then he tried to escape us and I lost my temper—"

  "You tortured him," Amanda said coldly. "You may have destroyed his mind. You will pay for it."

  Durell checked his watch, surprised to see it was only nine o'clock. The morning heat shimmered on the rocky floor of the desert; the sun was a blinding white glare in a white sky. He thought of the fact that the helicopter held only four people: Amanda and himself, Richard and Irhan Kadir. WTiich left Skoll out.

  Skoll solved the unspoken problem.

  For his size, he was blindingly fast. Amanda was helping to make certain Richard was comfortable in the cabin, and her rifle dangled loosely from its shoulder strap. Skoll moved too fast for Durell to stop him. In one swift sweep of muscular power, Skoll caught the girl around the waist and pulled her against him, and at the same moment, got the gun in his right hand, thrust under Amanda's arm, and pointed it at Durell. His grin creased his round Russian face.

  "Boom, American. This time you are really dead."

  Durell didn't move. "Don't be a fool, Cesar."

  "I offered you an alliance. You refused."

  "I didn't want to end up like Chu Li."

  "We could have reached a working agreement. Now we have nothing left to share but Richard Coppitt, our dazed genius. I am afraid he would be difficult to divide between us."

  Kadir made a small sound of fear. Amanda's face was drained of color. Her eyes looked apologetic as she stared at Durell.

  "Drop your gun, Cajun," Skoll ordered. "The young lady has many talents. She shall fly me to a safe place and I shall take Richard back to Moscow, where he will be given the best of treatment—"

  "Brainwashed, you mean."

  "—as well as every laboratory facility he desires. It will be interesting, then, to be the only power in the world with eyes, so to speak. I expect I will be given several medals, and promoted to General rank. I would like that. The alternative, I fear, is a firing squad for failure. I have nothmg much to lose, eh? It is regrettable for you, but I ask you to be sensible and drop your gun."

  "You're going to kill me, Cesar?"

  "Sadly, I must."

  Irhan Kadir whimpered. Behind Amanda's tall figure as a shield, Skoll was sure of himself. But Durell said, "Amanda means nothing to me, Skoll. You should know that. She's expendable in this matter. So it's a draw."

  "Drop your gun, Cajun," Skoll said again.

  Durell's weapon matched Skoll's. Only the girl stood between them. Her face grew even whiter. As the truth slowly dawned, she started to speak and then closed her mouth and looked at Durell as if she did not know him.

  "A game of poker, Cajun? You are bluffing. Our dossier shows you tend to be a gambler. But in this case, we know your relationship with this lovely creature has not been entirely one of—ah—business."

  Skoll's face was beaded with sweat. Dark stains appeared under his armpits. He could not control it. And it was not entirely due to the blasting heat of the sun. His strong, cruel mouth dipped at the corners. He was accustomed to dealing from a position of strength; weakness only amused him. This time, as he looked into the muzzle of Durell's gun and into Durell's dark blue eyes, he was uncertain for one of the few times in his life. They could both die here. He saw a readiness to die in Durell's face. He did not quite understand. They both worked in a world of danger. One became professional at it and tried to maintain objectivity. You knew the rules and followed them. But Durell ignored the rules. They challenged each other, with the girl an innocent victim, and Durell should have given up. But he didn't.

  A bluff, Skoll thought.

  He sweated harder.

  Then Durell's gun swung an inch aside, and there was a sudden quick hammering as bullets spurted into the sand and keened off the rocks in the harsh sunlight. Durell was smiling. He moved his gun muzzle to the other side, and the slugs clattered and screamed inches from Skoll's feet.

  *'Even if you squeezed your trigger, Skoll," Durell said quietly, as the echoes died, "you're a dead man."

  "And the girl?"

  "I told you. Expendable."

  It was Amanda who broke the deadlock. She suddenly shrugged herself loose from Skoll's grip and stepped aside. Skoll laughed and let her go. He spread his arms, holding his gim out to one side, muzzle up to the sky.

  "You win, Comrade Cajun."

  "Drop the gun."

  "Will you kill me?"

  "Amanda, come here. Stand beside me."

  She stared at him for a long moment. Her red hair shone in the hot desert sun. A wind, as if from a furnace, blew a thick strand across her cheek. Her green eyes were blank, weighing him, and he wasn't sure if it was anger or a calm, cold judgment she was making. Skoll dropped his gun and Irhan Kadir darted forward and picked it up, then scuttled safely out of reach of the big Russian.

  "Amanda," Durell said again.

  Skoll grinned. "She will never come to your bed again, American. She knows how httle value she has in your eyes now. Her woman's pride is hurt. Women think they are the most precious jewels a man could desire. It is hard for them to realize there may be more important things for us. And now—what will you do with me?"

  There was still only room for four of them in the helicopter.

  "I'll leave you the truck, Colonel Skoll. You can drive it—or you can walk home."

  31

  Amanda's suite at the Auberge de la Plage in Agadir had wide windows that faced the bay at the foot of Founti Hill, viewing the Atlantic and the beaches from the topmost floor of the white, exquisite hotel. It was furnished in Moorish-Hispanic style with heavy Castilian furniture and batik hangings, Toledo swords, a long balcony with potted rose bushes and geraniums. A fig tree and some cypress trees grew in a little garden just under the balcony. There was a sense of peace and lush, tropical warmt
h in the suite.

  Durell knocked, waited, and knocked again. He had not seen Amanda since their return to Agadir yesterday morning. She would not talk to him on the phone; her brief response had been cool and distant. She was resting, she said; she did not wish to be disturbed; she was involved with HCI business by cable and long-distance telephone. Steve was coming in from Zurich. Perhaps she would find a few minutes in which to say goodbye, before the affairs of HCI occupied her time and took her back to New York. He had not pressed her too much. He told her he understood how she felt, but that what had happened with Skoll could not be helped, they would have lost everything, and he hoped she was forgiving.

  'There is nothing to forgive, Sam," she said. "But I'm very, very sorry."

  He had helped to arrange a doctor for Richard, her stepson, and then a plane with a guard to take him to Casablanca and onward to Washington, where further arrangements had been made for his hospitalization, looking for a recovery from both his physical and psychic wounds. A genius such as Richard, Durell thought, was like a delicate machine, dependent on stability and tender care. Whether Richard recovered enough from his abuse to resume work at PASS was not Durell's concern. He had done his job. He had destroyed the satellite-stealing base in the Sahara; he had found Richard and brought him back; and the young man's condition was not his responsibility.

  He told himself all this, and was not satisfied. On his return there had been several coded messages waiting for him, in reply to the inquiries he had made in Zurich with McFee. He had decoded and then burned them, and then soaked in a tub for hours, ate a large dinner, ordered up a bottle of bourbon, and slept the clock around.

  He made no attempt to write the reports that would be required in Washington.

  And he was not at all surprised when Dickinson McFee arrived, one flight ahead of Mr. G. Stephenson of HCI.

  The afternoon was warm, the air filled with the scent of citrus fruit from the groves along the Oued Sous. Fishing boats made splashes of color along the docks at the foot of the Founti kasbah. The foothills of the Anti Atlas range were green on this side, where they dipped their toes into the blue Atlantic.