Assignment White Rajah

by Edward S. Aarons

  Two men were waiting for him in his room.

  There was a wide veranda that ran the length of the scrollwork facade of the Kuan Diop, and Durell's windows opened on this with two Bombay chairs aligned to face the park and the dock below. Durell had left the French doors closed and the door locked, but that would not be a problem for these two.

  They had helped themselves to his liquor and made themselves comfortable. They got up casually and easily, at home in their own province, sure of themselves and their power. "Mr. Durell?"

  He waved a hand. "Help yourself. Colonel."

  "Thank you. We have. We apologize for the intrusion."

  "Not at all," Durell said blandly.

  "We haven't met, but you know me?"

  "Everyone in Pasangara knows Colonel Thu Tileong."

  "This is my lieutenant, Lieutenant Parepa."

  "I am honored."

  They were tough and brown and very natty in their khakis, Sam Brownes, and bolstered pistols. Very Americanized. Their round faces smiled as impassively as the Buddha's on the temple grounds down the boulevard. The black eyes regarded him blankly. Colonel Tileong was small and slim with a thin moustache apparently grown with difficulty. He didn't feel the heat at all. There was a small scar running from a comer of his mouth down the side of his chin, but it was not impleasant.

  His lieutenant was another matter. Sometimes the Malays grow big, and Parepa was a giant for a Malay, almost Durell's height, and although he tried, Parepa could not put on the veneer of worldly sophistication enjoyed by his superior. Parepa was a murderer. It showed in his broad, harsh face and the downward curve of his mouth and in the way he regarded Durell.

  "You left your door unlocked, Mr. Durell. Very careless in these restless times."

  "Yes, the times are restless. How many Chinese have been killed so far?"

  "Thirty-seven," Parepa said at once.

  "And Malays?"

  Colonel Tileong intercepted the question. "We did not come here to discuss the disturbances with you, although we would, of course, value your opinion since your own country has seen much racial tension, too. It is all very regrettable—"

  "Why are you here, then?"

  "Martial law has been declared," said the colonel, "and a curfew as well."

  "I see."

  "You have violated the curfew. No Europeans are permitted beyond the city boundaries for the next forty-eight hours. You did not know that, of course. However, we are

  forced, regrettably, to ask you to confine yourself to the hotel grounds until further notice. It is for your own protection, naturally. Tempers are running high, and you might be mistaken by a mob and become an unhappy victim of our misfortune."

  "Am I under arrest?" Durell asked.

  "Of course not."

  "I would like to go to the consulate."

  "Ah, yes. Your credentials have been examined by our security people, and there are some questions we have— purely routine, naturally—but nevertheless, you know how bureaucrats love paper work." Colonel Tileong smiled. His hands moved very slightly. Lieutenant Parepa scowled, as if impatient with the courtesies. "Could you be at my office by nine o'clock tomorrow morning?"

  "I thought you had just confined me to the hotel."

  "Yes, but we will send a car for you. Agreeable?"

  "I'm happy to cooperate."

  "Ah, one other thing," Colonel Tileong said. "Your gun. Was it declared at customs?"

  "What gun?" DureU asked.

  "Come, come, Mr. Durell. We know who you are. We know your position vis a vis Mr. George Hammond. We are surprised, not flattered, that Pasangara merits your attention. We manage our own affairs now. The gun will be returned to you when you leave us."

  "All right." Durell took his .38 S & W and handed it to Tileong, who passed it negligently back to Parepa, whose huge paw swallowed it like the mouth of a boa constrictor. "Will I get it back?"

  "These are troubled times. The matter will be decided officially. And, ah, one other thing." Colonel Tileong smiled again. Durell preferred him not to. "About the Merrydales, you see. They hold a most, ah, anomalous position here in Pasangara. Descendents of buccaneer royalty, in a sense. There is no harm in them these days; we rather enjoy their presence with us as a reminder of exploitation, a goad to make us preserve our national independence and rights."

  "Museum pieces?" Durell asked.

  "In a sense. You found Pala Mir well?"

  "Yes." He saw no point in denying his visit. It was obvious that Tileong knew all about it, which, in turn, meant that the leak he had suspected at the consulate was much too big for any lad to stop with a finger in the dike.

  "What was your business with Pala Mir?"

  "A courtesy call."

  "Come, come, Mr. Durell."

  Durell responded, "If I am under arrest, then take me into custody. If you want to question me, do it officially. If I'm to be interrogated, let's go down to your barracks."

  "We are trying to be decent about this, sir."

  "Then stop swiping my liquor, breaking into my hotel room, and putting the finger on me. I'm here as second legal secretary to the American consul, Mr. David Condon, and if you wish to declare me persona non grata, do so. Otherwise, I'll have to report harassment by the local authorities."

  "You could not report it now," Tileong said. "The cables and phone wires are all down, thanks to the mob violence. We expect the power to go shortly, which will disable all but battery-powered radios."

  "You expect this?"

  "It is difficult to contain this madness."

  "Can't you protect your own power plant?"

  "Ah, we have only so many men. We will' do our best." Tileong stood up. He was a very small, very dapper man.

  Durell said, "I think I prefer to have my gun back, if things are that bad."

  "You are not very cooperative, sir."

  "I'm sorry I'm not." Durell went across to the center of his room beyond the big bed with its mosquito netting and picked up the telephone on the bamboo table against the wall. Under the telephone was an outdated but still effective J-5 mike and transmitter, a tiny black disc adhered to the plastic. Durell thumbed it off and tossed it through the open French windows over the edge of the balcony. "Yours, Colonel?"

  Both military men had been startled by his move. "That was government property—" Tileong began.

  His lieutenant was more direct. Parepa had his gun out of its shiny holster, and as Durell turned, the lieutenant slashed at his head with the butt. Durell fell sidewise, aware of pain near the right temple, worried about his right eye, but looking for a chance to knee the big man in the groin. He didn't get it. Parepa was quick for his size, and his fist exploded in Durell's belly. As Durell came forward, Parepa chopped at his neck and drove him flat, face down, on the bed. It would have been easy for Durell to use his heel and hook the big man where it hurt and then come up and smash in Parepa's face, but he lay still, exaggerating his pain, and waited. Parepa seemed satisfied. There was a quick exchange in Malay, and Tileong came over and shook Durell's shoulder.

  "Are you all right, Mr. Durell?"

  "Never better."

  "The floors are slippery. The servants are very zealous with the wax."

  "Yes, you are correct."

  "I will expect you at my office by nine o'clock tomorrow morning. As I said, one of my cars will pick you up."

  "Your hospitality is overwhelming."

  Dimly over the night-bound city came the sound of a rolling, thxmderous explosion. The windows rattled and the walls of the hotel shook. Plaster came down from the ceiling in small white puffs. The overhead fan stopped working, there was a flickering of the lights, and then they went out.

  "Your power plant," said Durell.

  In the darkness Tileong's smile could be felt, if not seen. "Ah, yes."

  7

  Servants in white wraparound skirts came with oil lanterns, chattering softly to themselves. Durell bathed the cut on his head and sent down
for some plastic tape. He took one of the lamps into the huge bathroom and considered his right eye in the speckled mirror. Not too bad. He spent twenty minutes going over his room, following the IPS formula, but nothing had been disturbed. Parepa was an amateur. There was nothing he could do about the French doors and the veranda, since any plastic credit card could slip the latch, but he locked the doors, balanced a broken match on top of one, and drew the thin, cotton curtains, arranging the folds from right to left where they rested on the poHshed teak floor.

  There was no need for power in the Chungsu area of the city. Several fires had started there among the defensive Chinese, and the red glow lit up the tropical night over the town. Dimly, he heard fire sirens, the clang of antiquated equipment, and a volley of shots from somewhere else in the city.

  The hotel was calm. The clients almost seemed to enjoy the siege. They felt safe, as if it were a picnic. Colonel Tileong had left a company of soldiers bivouacked in the park and the boulevard. Nobody could get in. But no one could get out, either.

  By ten o'clock he was ready. He opened the corridor door and saw a young Malay soldier seated in a wicker chair at the end of the hall, a rifle across his knees. Durell went down the wide stairway to the lobby, and the soldier got up and followed him but then seated himself when

  Durell went into the bar. The candles and oil lamps that lit up the hotel made deep shadows in the comers and behind the tall columns that supported the high ceiling. There were English, Dutch, French, and Japanese at the bar and at the tables. The Chinese businessmen and shopkeepers had quietly gone away.

  Durell had a bourbon and soda and returned to his room. The young soldier followed. In his room he stripped, showered, and changed to a dark business suit he had worn in Taiwan. His luggage had been rifled, but there was nothing overt there that could be pinned on him by the local security people. He went out on the wide veranda that faced the river. A soldier stood at each end, and they turned alertly when he appeared. Smoking a cigarette, he looked down at the river boat and remembered the old Trois Belles, the Mississippi side-wheeler on which he had been raised by his Grandpa Jonathan.

  The fires still raged in Chungsu.

  He yawned elaborately, then turned back to his room to use the telephone. The switchboard was still working. He asked for the consulate. After a time, he was answered by Condon himself. The consul was angry.

  "See here, Durell, it seems that you caused some sort of disturbance tonight. There's been a complaint lodged against you by Colonel Tileong."

  "And I have a complaint against him. I want to see you, Condon."

  "Yes, yes, so I imagine. The Merrydales—"

  "Is George Hammond there?"

  "No."

  "Where is he?"

  "I haven't the foggiest idea. What difference does that make?"

  "I must see Hammond at once. Send aroimd a consulate car, will you? I'm boxed in here."

  "There's a curfew, my dear fellow—"

  "You can claim diplomatic immunity," said Durell.

  "I'd rather not. See here, I don't know what you are up to or why you're in Pasangara at all, but I've run a tight and tidy ship here, and I'm on good terms with the local authorities, planning to enlarge the Information Library—"

  "You'll have to build a new one. It was burned down today, remember? Does George Hammond have a regular driver?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Sleeps in the consulate?"

  "Yes, but see here—"

  "Send him. Fifteen n;iinutes."

  Condon was silent, then said quietly, "All right. But I really can't have you—"

  Durell hung up.

  He returned to the lobby, followed by the soldier as before, and stepped out of the front doors of the Kuan Diop. There was a curving driveway, palm trees, oleanders, neatly trinmied flower beds, and two stone Malay tigers on high pedestals. The boulevard was empty except for small groups of soldiers and an armored car. When Durell went down the steps, the young militiaman tapped his shoulder, said something in Malay, smiled, and shook his head, pointing back to the hotel doors.

  Durell nodded, returned the smile, pointed at the car lights swinging up the drive from the wide avenue, then moved hghtly down the steps. He was a tall man, heavily muscled in the shoulders, with thick black hair touched with gray at the temples. Condon surely knew he was a field chief of operations for K Section of the Central Intelligence Agency. The consul must have thought better of his objections.

  The car was a big Cadillac with American flags in small chrome standards beside the headlights. It shd smoothly to a halt beside Durell. The door swung open, and he got in before the young Malay soldier could run halfway down the steps. The soldier shouted something, but the Cadillac was moving before Durell slammed the door shut. He heard more yelling, and some other troopers dropped the rice they were cooking over small fires on the lawn and began running to the gates. They were too late. Durell looked back and saw one of them pick up the telephone at the hotel door, but he decided that didn't matter.

  "Where to, Mr. Durell?" asked the driver.

  "Do you know Chiang Gi?"

  "He is my grandfather, sir."

  "I'd hoped so. Where is Mr. Hammond?"

  "With his fiancee, I think."

  "In Chungsu?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Let's go there."

  "It's a bad night for that, sir."

  "Step on it."

  A siren wailed before they had gone more than five blocks from the hotel. The city was blacked out, but the moon was bright and the fires in the Chinese section added a red glow to the tropical sky. There was some rubble in the streets, torn banners, bricks, and stones. A barricade had been built at one intersection, but it had been overturned and was not manned. Several dark clumps of shadow lay in the gutters under the palm trees, bodies that no one had claimed or bothered to pick up yet. Circling the barrier, the driver was quick and efficient, nicking, however, one timber with a clatter that sent it tumbling across the street.

  Headlights flickered behind them. The siren wailed a little louder.

  The curfew was effective here. Not a living soul was on the streets. The houses were all dark, the shops shuttered and blank.

  The streets became narrow and more twisting as they entered the native quarter. The headhghts behind them flickered, vanished, and came on again.

  Durell had studied a map of Pasangara's streets when he had first arrived. He leaned forward and touched the driver's shoulder.

  "Stop here and let me out. Then keep going as fast as you can for the consulate."

  "But you said you wanted to see Mr. Hammond—"

  "I'll find him."

  "Sir, the streets are dangerous tonight—"

  "Stop the car."

  Ten seconds later he stood in a shadowed doorway and watched the taillights of the Cadillac vanish down an alley. He stood still. There was a roar from the pursuing car as it rocketed after the Cadillac. Durell saw four troop>-ers with rifles at rest and a driver, their headlights glaring as they screeched around the comer and vanished from sight.

  He slowly became aware of the empty silence all around him.

  There were papers strewn about, and a tin can glinted in the narrow street. There was a smell of cooking in the air and a smell of something charred and burned, too. An overturned noodle stand lay on the sidewalk. Chinese lanterns had been torn and shredded by an angry mob that had passed this way. Some of the Chinese signs of the shops had been left to litter the sidewalk. He heard a cat mewl, then a dog bark. He heard nothing human, anywhere.

  Durell had been with K Section for more years than he cared to remember. His contract was due for its annual renewal in two weeks, and he knew that short of death or serious injury, his file would remain open. General McFee, that small, anonymous gray man who ran K Section, would never let him out. any more than George Hammond had been permitted a peaceful day for the rest of his life. There were dossiers on Durell at No. 2 Dzher-zinsky Square in Moscow,
where the reconstituted MVD had its headquarters. The Russian Ministerstsvo Vnuter-nikh Dyel—the secret police known as the MVD)—would be happy to close the book on him. So, too, would Peking's dreaded Black House.

  He began walking east toward the waterfront. It was like walking through a city of the dead.

  Long ago you were a boy growing up in the Cajun bayou country of Louisiana with old Grandpa Jonathan, living aboard the hulk of the Trois Belles. The old man had been the last of the Mississippi riverboat gamblers, and from his quiet and patient teaching you learned to hunt bigger game than birds and foxes in the moss-draped lagoons and waterways of the delta parishes.

  Later there had been Yale, a New England polish, a law degree, and K Section. You were in the silent, underground war before you knew it, driven by a dedication you sometimes denied and a love for freedom and dignity that sounded archaic on today's campuses. You never talked about it. You just did your job. You worked and trained at mnemonic patterns, weaponry, analysis and synthesis, and program patterns for situation problems that other men had paid with their lives to perfect.

  Light gleamed ahead. It was one of the narrow klongs that intersected the old slum section of the city near the waterfront. He saw moonlight on the water. There was a gleam of glass from a lantern on one of the nested sampans tied up near the bridge. A child cried but was quickly hushed. It was the first human sound he had heard since he had taken to foot.

  He was aware of his vulnerability. He could be shot as a looter, or on any pretext, with the tightly clamped curfew now in effect throughout the city. Apologies would be sent to Washington, but no excuses tendered. Keeping to the shadows, he drifted silently toward the bridge.

  At the comer there was a wider street, an embankment on the canal that twisted in from the river. He turned left along a line of shops that were scarred with broken windows, hastily repaired with boarding. The sampans at the bridge were like a huddle of sheep, waiting for circling wolves. He thought he saw a man's head pop up briefly, turn and watch him, and then duck out of sight again. Their fear was greater than his, he reflected.

  Beyond the bridge were more shops, and walking past a Chinese herbalist's, he glanced at the red and gold sign and the dragon painted over the door, then went on. At the comer, satisfied, he circled back behind the huddled, shanty-type tenements, found the alley Hammond had once described, and walked into its darkness with care.