“How do you know about McFee?”
“I don’t exactly work for him, as you do. But my boss works with him. You know about interdepartmental secrecy? Bane of a good man’s existence, in Washington.” Lantern began to laugh, then went into a spasm of coughing. I’m a sleeper,” he said. “They use sleepers, so why shouldn’t we‘? I’m with the NSA people.”
“You’re right about one thing,” Durell said coldly.
“McFee would have told me about you, if it was true.”
“McFee didn’t know, old Cajun. Nobody but my boss knows. It was set up that way.”
Durell was angry. “That doesn’t begin to make sense.”
Lantern’s yellow eyes were fixed on his. “Maybe not to you. But it did to me, when they handed me the job. I don’t trust anybody in this business. Not my boss, not any man on a team, not you. I learned the hard way, over China. They flew me from Taipeh last year, with a collaborator, a nice young fellow; and we had to drop. It was going to be a piece of cake, picking up data on military installations and making our way back to the coast near Macao to be picked up. It went well enough, until this dependable young Chinese from San Francisco, who’d been put through every mill we’ve got, every check and re-check and computer and psych exam, tried to turn me in. It was sort of a shock.” Lantern paused. “I had to kill him. The whole deal went sky-high. I was in the hospital for four months. I turned in my resignation. My boss asked why and I told him I’d never work with anyone again. I went back into the business when he agreed to my stipulation: nobody, nobody at all, was to know who I really am. Not General McFee. Not you, Cajun. No matter about your triple-A security clearance. No matter what you’ve got on your dossier. Sorry if your feelings are hurt. It isn’t that McFee didn’t trust you with the truth about me. He didn’t know it.”
Durell drew a deep breath. His first shock at the thought that he had not been trusted began to fade. But his deep-rooted suspicion still remained. Lantern’s story made sense, of a sort. It was the sort of thing he might have done himself, under similar circumstances. But he wasn’t ready yet to buy anything.
“Tell me about NSA," he said tightly.
“You want to check me out’! You’ve been down to the file room at our District HQ at Fort George Meade?
Big, U-shaped place with a high wire fence, and a Whirlwind Computer in the basement that can break any code in the world, huh? You know Department ‘J’? ‘J’ for jokers, right? The mugs, prints and dossiers, the pretty little bits of scandal, the tabs on weaknesses-drink, women, sex habits, greeds. You worked over those ‘J’ files yourself, plenty of times.”
“How do you get down there?”
“Well, your ID card is no good without the day’s password. You get that from the fourth floor, Room 408. You get to 408 by two elevators. The first takes you to the sixth floor. You give your ID to the Madison Avenue type there. We’re full up on Princeton men, but you went to Yale, I hear. Kind of messes up your Cajun accent. Anyway, you get the word from the Princeton lad. And a key. The key gets you into the second elevator. You go through the Slot—electric eye, X-ray scanner, the works. At the fourth floor, you’re still not finished. Another lad—also Princeton, I think—makes a few telephone calls. You can watch yourself in the TV peeper, if you know where to look.”
“Where is it hidden?” Durell asked.
“In the football trophy on the Princeton lad’s desk.”
“What about your military record and the affidavits about what a bastard you were in that ambush at Luc Bat?”
“I went through that bit on orders, after I failed to get in through Taipeh, as I told you. But a lot of it was doctored and leaked to Hong Kong when Peiping wanted to check me out. It made good reading for the Chinese brass. I was at Luc Bat just for this job. The ambush was genuine, just what I’d been waiting for. By then the defector picture had been built up, so I walked as far as Chong Fo on their Number 7 road and let their militia take me. I waved one of their pamphlets that call us warmongers and imperialist murderers and convinced them that I wanted to come over to their side.”
“And they believed you?”
“Not at first, naturally. But I used to be an amateur actor, of sorts. Still, you can’t palm off a quick Method job on those cats. They finally sent me up to the Grass Basket, at Peiping. I puzzled them. I guess they wanted to believe they’d caught a live one, and I convinced them. And finally became Yellow Torch, a Cong guerrilla leader.”
“You’ve led terrorists on village raids. . . .”
‘I'm not a bad tactician. That was part of my qualifications for the job. But most of what you heard about me was propaganda, for terror effect.”
“What about your hillbilly background? I was briefed on your resentment of society.”
“All part of the picture for my ‘defection.’ I’m a hill boy, right enough; like you were a bayou boy. But I never had any real complaint.” Lantern sighed. “Are you sure you can remember all I have to tell you? I came by it the hard and lonely way. My name will be mud with people I care for, and that’s a lot to pay for doing this job. I spent six months in these jungles. I know most of the ‘fortress areas’ prepared by the Congs. Places, provisions, munitions depots and factories, all in caves and tunnels; ammo dumps in the jungle, military trails —the whole works.”
“You said you don’t know it all.”
“They watched me. They gave me the name of Yellow Torch, but I was only the front man.”
“And the real boss of the Cong Hai?”
The bearded man sighed again. “I don’t know it. It worked out pretty good, otherwise—I mean, your not knowing who I was. As long as you regarded me as a traitor, they let me live. But no more. They’ll come to kill me, now. They’ve lost face—and maybe a few heads will roll—because I fooled ‘em. And I’m hoping that maybe I can get the boss if he comes after me. We’re in the ‘sudden death’ period of the play-off, right? But I better not waste any more strength. Start your memory circuits going, Cajun. I’ve got facts and figures for you.”
It had not been easy to learn, Durell recalled. The weeks of mental anguish at K Section’s ‘Farm’ in Maryland had been exquisite torment. You learned to wipe your mind clean of everything but the speaker’s voice, and you learned memory “chains” by which to imprint the message verbatim on your mind. It did not work perfectly. But in emergency situations, it was the best that could be done.
Durell listened while the thin voice gave him the data on the Cong Hai. The “memory chains” gave system and meaning to what he heard. Lantern spoke for five minutes without pause. His breath came with quick irregularity, and beads of sweat stood out on his bearded face. The effort was draining him of his last resources.
Durell neither believed nor disbelieved. And when at last Orris Lantern sank back with a gasp and lay with his face upturned to the cabin roof, his yellow eyes were dulled and empty.
Durell waited a moment.
“Recheck,” he said.
“Go ahead.”
He spoke rapidly, without accent or inflection, repeating all that Lantern had told him. He made no errors. A flicker of admiration touched Lantern’s flat eyes, and that was all, until Lantern said:
“Okay. I may not make it. But you’ve got it. It you still don’t believe me, you can finish me now."
“I’m not a murderer,” Durell said.
Lantern coughed and laughed again and turned his face to the wall and said bitterly: “I’d think twice before I’d be sure of that, Cajun.”
24
DURELL went into the last cabin at the end of the corridor. The Thai soldier on guard stepped aside, his liquid eyes regarding Durell with open curiosity. Anna-Marie and Danat had gone back to attend to Lantern. There was one thing left for Durell to do before he gave the order to move the steamboat.
Lao was in this aft cabin. He was chained to a stanchion of a hog shaft that came up through the deck just outside the broken window. He sat with his legs sprawled before
him, his lean face blank. Nothing changed in his eyes as Durell deliberately closed the door behind him.
Underfoot, the deck suddenly vibrated as the Lady’s engines came to life. Beyond the window, the lagoon was now dark.
Time had run out.
Durell lit a cigarette and leaned against the rusted bulkhead and stared down at the ragged, thin prisoner.
There was nothing servile about Sergeant Lao. His manner was arrogant and stubborn. Someone had beaten him about the face, and the bruises made his young features look lumpy, but he gave no evidence of suffering pain.
“Lao, you killed Major Muong,” Durell began, “even though he was your friend. He trusted you and regarded you almost as a son.”
Lao smiled and said nothing.
“You also killed, or arranged to kill, Uncle Chang. That was your job, too, I imagine.”
“Chang was a sentimental old fool,” Lao spat.
“And his twin brother, Paio Chu?”
Silence.
“Where is Paio?”
Silence.
“And where is Deirdre Padgett?”
Lao grinned. “She is dead."
Durell betrayed no shock. “You’re lying.”
“Stay here, and you will be dead, too.”
“What kind of bargain do you want for Deirdre’s life?”
Durell asked softly.
“We want the double agent, Orris Lantern. We want him alive, for questioning.”
“And if I refuse?”
Lao shrugged. “You will not refuse. We know you, Durell. We know all about you. At first, it was decided to kill Yellow Torch. I tried, and failed, and it is best, after all. It is now decided to keep him alive, for a time. You will not refuse to give him to us. The lady will make you reconsider, and you do not have much time.”
“Neither do you, Lao.”
Lao shrugged.
“l’m going to kill you,” Durell said. “Slowly.”
Lao made a spitting sound. “You Americans are too soft and chivalrous. You would not torture a helpless prisoner.”
“You’re mistaken, Lao. Unfortunately, we’ve had to learn a few lessons from you people. I’ll ask you once more. Where is Deirdre Padgett?”
Lao suddenly heaved up at the end of his chin and screamed at the top of his voice: “Death to all imperialists! Death to all white men! Long live the People’s Republic! Long live the Workers’ and Peasants’ Front!”
“You fool,” Durell said softly.
He began to work.
Long ago, he had been instructed in the knowledge of sensitive neural centers, the systems sensitive to pain by which men are reduced to sobbing, babbling creatures anxious to please. Durell had never used this knowledge
before in cold blood. But he revealed none of the nausea and distaste he felt as he applied his techniques to Lao’s stubborn body and mind. He knew of counter-systems by which pain can be blocked and the mind sealed off from the body. Lao knew these systems well. He endured, quietly. His muscles knotted and bunched, his face twitched and jerked out of shape. But his mouth remained stubbornly closed, and his eyes glared with a mad defiance.
It was stifling in the narrow cabin, and the smell was sickening. Durell persisted. He knew he was inflicting scars on himself that might never be erased. But he had to go on and find out about Deirdre. It was his last chance.
And Lao defeated him. There was not enough time.
The Dong Xo Lady listed to starboard with the weight of the excited, panic-stricken refugees on the main deck, who walled persistently in thin, high, frightened voices. Someone tapped on the door and Durell paused and straightened, covered with sweat, and answered it.
The old engineer, Tuc Kuwan, smiled toothlessly.
“It is time, and we are ready, sir. It grows dark and the channel to the river is narrow. You will be captain?”
“In a moment.”
“It must be now, sir.” The old man looked at Lao, sprawled on the cabin floor, and shot Durell a puzzled glance. “This is one of the enemy?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you not simply kill him?”
“I need him for a few more minutes.”
“Let my people have him. They know what to do with his kind.” Tuc suddenly giggled and advanced with strange, dancing steps toward the Chinese’s prone body. Lao jerked around in sudden surprise and looked up at the scrawny old man. His eyes widened. Tuc said something in a spitting dialect and Lao returned it, briefly. Tuc spoke to Durell. “Let me give him to the women, to the widows and mothers who lost their men through this filth of a person.”
Durell saw something flicker in Lao’s eyes and said quietly: “All right, you can have him.”
Lao rolled over on his back and stared blindly at the darkened overhead. He licked his lips. Tuc hunkered down beside him and giggled and spoke again in his village dialect. Lao shook his head from side to side. The old man touched his body with a stiff, probing finger.
Lao suddenly screamed and jerked upward and tried to escape. He came up short against the hog chain that hound him. Tue grinned again.
Lao gasped: “I will talk, but it will not help you, American spy. It is too late for your woman. You have lost everything.”
Durell let out a long breath and signaled the old man away. “We’ll see. Begin talking. And make it fast.”
25
DURELL stood at the wheel in the pilothouse of the Lady. Everything aboard shook and trembled as if the old steamer were about to come apart at the seams. Papa Danat sat on a stool nearby, his fat legs spread, belly sagging between his thick knees. Anna-Marie was still below with Lantern. Lao had been shackled again, to the disappointment of old Tuc. Steam gushed through a dozen leaks in the pressure pipes as he gave the signal to cast off. From the main deck came a babble of voices, rising through the darkness like the sudden beat of wings from a startled flock of birds. Durell took a deep breath and signaled for slow ahead.
Now he would know.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then from the belly of the little steamer came a slow grinding noise, a burst of extra steam. There was a whistle in the engine room tube. A plume of sparks and a belch of smoke came from the precariously leaning stacks. The vessel shook like an old dog begging piteously to be let alone. Then came a splash of water, a slow, groaning lift of the paddle wheels under their teak covers. A wire snapped with a sound like a pistol shot. Papa Danat swore and stood up. Another splash, and the paddles revolved again. The creak and squeak of protesting metal and wood sounded enormous in the dark, quiet lagoon. The Dong Xo Lady did not move.
Durell spoke quietly into the tube.
“More steam, Tuc.”
The refugees on deck were silent. Durell strained to see through the thickening gloom of the channel to the river. It was more than two hundred yards, with little room beyond the beam of the paddle-wheeler. The depth had been sounded by Tuc, and it should be all right. But he was not sure of anything at this moment. The boilers, shaking under the pressure in their rusty sections, could blow them all sky-high at any instant.
The deck shook again. The Lady moved with a sudden forward surge and a great splash of water from her side paddles. At the same time, as she left the support of her ancient dock, she took a heavy list to port, making a wave that sent a long surge of black water sliding across the lagoon. Now the passengers screamed in sudden panic, and one or two jumped overboard. Durell leaned forward and yelled through the windowless pilothouse wall.
“Everyone to starboard! Quickly!”
There were some who understood him. Behind the pilothouse, the tall, bell-mouthed stacks that towered above the Texas deck creaked and swayed; another guy wire snapped and the end of the cable lashed viciously through the air. Painfully, the Lady lighted herself as the passengers moved to starboard. The bow swung toward the channel as Durell hauled on the wheel. The pulleys were reluctant to yield, and it took all his strength.
But they were moving.
> A yell of triumph came from the people packed below. With alarming speed, the narrow channel entrance, only a dark slot in the gloom, came toward them.
“Slow ahead,” Durell called.
Like the cumbersome splashing of some antediluvian monster, the steamer surged across the lagoon. Durell forced the wheel slightly to starboard. The response was sluggish. Papa Danat lent his weight to the steering mechanism and the bow turned slowly, heading into the slot of the channel.
Vines and creepers swept, crashed, slithered, and broke against the steamer’s bulwarks. Wild orchids winked at them from branches covered with a million butterflies, creating a host of pinpoint lights in the darkness. Durell kept his sight on the faint glimmer of the river at the far end of the channel. More screams of terror came from the passengers. Gently, he eased the thrashing paddlewheeler around a slight bend to port. The gloom brightened. A tree crashed down on the stern, and are vessel surged for the nearby bank. Again Papa Danat helped him fight the bow into the proper direction. The vessel shuddered, and there came a thick sucking sound as mud and giant, squashy vegetation pulled at her flat bottom.
Then they were free again and with a suddenness that surprised him, they were thrashing directly across the river, popping out of the channel like a cork from a bottle.
“To port!” Danat cursed. “Hard aport!”
~ The river current had seized the little steamer and swung her stern downstream, pointing her in the direction opposite to which they must go. The other bank, thick with the marsh reeds where the herons nested, came up with appalling swiftness.
“Reverse engines,” Durell ‘ordered.
Tuc Kuwan, the old engineer down below, called a response. The Dong Xo Lady shuddered throughout her short length and the paddles screeched and groaned, halted, then began a slow reversal. Their momentum was
checked as the bow nosed into the reeds, then they backed, stern to the current.
As abruptly as a candle being snuffed out, the last light fled, and darkness swooped into the river valley.
But there was a moon, which lit the channel ahead, a mixed blessing, since it also showed them up On the surface of the river to the eyes of the enemy who must be following their course with astonishment. A warm, fetid breeze that smelled of the jungle followed astern. Ahead, the river widened for half a mile, and the Lady headed for the open water like an eager, waddling old duck.
Assignment - Cong Hai Kill Page 15
