"What Pao Thet terrorists?"
"All of Southeast Asia is riddled by Communist guerrilla groups, as you surely know, from Burma and Thailand on down through this province far to the south. Pasangara has certainly not been spared their attention. It is like a plague, but I am most determined to contain it. I shall crush these so-called Pao Thets, sir. Given a minor fever, such as our present disturbances, the plague spreads and seizes on our vital organs and tries to destroy all that we have so painfully achieved to this date. I will not let that happen. When the airfield is repaired, you wiU be flown out of Pasangara. I truly regret this necessity."
Durell began to feel sleepy.
14
He awoke in his room at the Kuan Diop Hotel. The doors to the veranda overlooking the river allowed a warm breeze to come in. It was night, and only a dim light shone in one comer of the room. He was alone.
He remembered vaguely riding in the premier's limousine with Kuang, polite, attentive, and solicitous, but with something behind his intelligent eyes that Durell could not make out. He was acutely aware that no one, at any time, had mentioned the missing U.S. Navy Thrashers.
He ached from head to foot and he was hungry and thirsty. He still had his watch; it read 10:30. He sat up with an effort and used the phone to order dinner, which was promised in half an hour. Then he stripped off the bandages the Chinese doctor had applied and managed to get himself into the huge bathroom to step under the shower. Electric power had returned to Pasangara but not peace. Through the bathroom window he could see new fires burning in Chungsu, glowing red against the night.
The shower water was tepid, neither cool nor refreshing. He stood under it for a long time, then managed to shave, slowly feeling the aches and stiffness leave his limbs. By the time he was dressed again, a skirted male servant of the Kuan Diop staff rolled in a dinner of satay, bits of meat grilled on bamboo skewers, and a rojak salad of bean sprouts, chili, mashed peanuts, and fish paste. He ate with surprising relish.
He wanted nothing more than to roll into bed and sleep for twelve hours; but he knew he couldn't do that.
The troops were gone from around the hotel, and when he looked into the corridor, no one was guarding his door. Beyond the veranda in the waterfront park, the old paddlewheel steamer was being loaded by slow-moving stevedores under spotlights.
Feeling better, he ate slowly and took a long drink from his depleted bottle of bourbon. He noted that the bug he had removed from his telephone had been replaced. He left it there and phoned the consulate. David Condon was out, according to the night secretary. So was George Hammond. He was just hanging up when the consul himself knocked on the door.
Mr. Condon, with his long blond hair, blue eyes, and finely chiseled face, looked like a modem Shelley. His white suit must have been especially tailored for him in one of San Francisco's mod shops. He looked elegant but angry and spoke perfunctorily. "May I come in?"
"You are in," Durell said. "Sit down. I've been trying to reach you. I need some help."
"Indeed. My help! See here, Durell, or whatever your name really is—"
"It's Samuel C. Durell."
"—I've had nothing but complaints from the government about you ever since you arrived. I told you when you first came here, I would tolerate no disturbances to my relationship with the local regime, but you've gone ahead in total disregard of my wishes to maintain a good rapport with Premier Kuang and his people here—"
"To coin a phrase," Durell said, "you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs. Sit down. Have a drink."
Condon was suspicious. "Do you drink much? Is that why you look so—so—whatever happened to your face?"
"I was interrogated by Colonel Tileong."
Condon stared haughtily. "Yes, I know. But why?"
"I have a job to do," Durell said patiently. "If it can be done quietly, fine. But sometimes it seems as if everybody knows everything that goes on in your consulate. Your security level is pretty low."
"That's George Hammond's job."
"I know."
"And you're supposed to work with Hammond. I don't have any real directives about you, Durell. I suppose you're here from one of the agencies, but it's not up to me to cater to your trouble-making schemes—"
"No schemes," Durell said quietly. "I'm just trying to find twelve missing Navy Thrashers."
Condon was pretty good about it. He sat down, pulled up his carefully creased white trousers, and adjusted the wide necktie he wore under his Edwardian lapels. He smoothed his long hair over his ears on each side of his young head, coughed, and looked at Durell.
"The Thrashers. Yes. I see."
"The Navy asked you to look into them, too *'
"Are you from ONI?" Condon asked
"Not exactly."
"A parallel agency?"
"You might say so."
Condon spoke petulantly. "I wish you had told me so right in the beginning. It's all a stupid false alarm. I don't know what happened to them, but to imagine they've been lured all the way across the South China Sea to this out-of-the-way province is ridiculous I know nothing about them."
"Didn't you hear them?"
"I beg your pardon."
"I heard two going over last night." Durell was surprised to realize that little more than twenty-four hours had passed since he had been chased through the jungle on his way to Pala Mir's river house. "You have no data on them?"
Condon got up nervously, walked around the room, and looked out on the veranda. "I think this place is bugged. Colonel Tileong is pretty efficient."
"He is. Tileong knows all about it."
"I can't make that man out. He makes me nervous."
"He makes me hurt," said Durell.
Condon ignored that. "I don't know if he's behind the subversive guerrilla movement that recently started these riots in town or not."
"I thought you thought I started them," said Durell
Condon stood up. "Let's go for a walk. In the park down there. We can talk more freely."
"I think not. It's safer here in some ways. I just want you to send a message for me to Kuala Lumpur. We have a man in our embassy there that I want to contact."
"Hammond is supposed to do that."
"I'd rather do it myself through you How is your memory?"
"Fine," said Condon. "Give me the message."
"It goes to Mr. Smith at our K.L. establishment. Simply say, 'Hennessy flying solo. Send data mongoose soonest to Jones. Also new RDF-Mark IX. Regards to Susie from Jasper.' "
Condon looked blank. "What does all that mean? Are you Hennessy, Jones, or Jasper?"
"Can you send it tonight?"
"Yes, we have our own radio communications—"
"Fine. That's all, then."
He had only a ten-minute respite before his second visitor arrived. There was a light tap on the door, and he came back from the veranda where he had been watching the riverboat and opened it, stepping a little to one side as he did so in case the visitor was unfriendly. He could not have been further wrong. It was Lily Fan.
Tiny, delicate, yet infinitely a woman, Lily tripped in wearing a Western minidress of flowered silk with her sleek black hair cut simply in front but dressed regally above her proud little head. Her whole manner was tremulous, as if she were ready to take flight simply at an angry look or word.
"Mr. Durell, I hope you don't mind my visiting you at this late hour—"
"I don't mind. But is it wise?"
"Oh, it's all right. Daddy—^the premier—knows I've gone to see you. In fact, he suggested it. He also sends further apologies for your treatment."
"What excuse did you give for seeing me?"
She giggled, and it might have sounded enchanting to Hammond, but Durell was not in the mood. She said, "Oh, I told him I wanted to know more about George and that you had once known him and might give me information to settle my mind about the whole thing."
"I thought it was settled already," Durell said.
&n
bsp; "Yes, it is. I love George and he loves me. It may sound crazy to everyone, and certainly Daddy doesn't approve. He thinks I'm a terrible person, disloyal to him and to China itself; but this is a modern world, and people are doing new things every day—"
"New things for them," said Durell. "Not new for the world."
She looked blank for a moment. "Anyway, I've come to beg you to be kind to George. He—he's a litde uncertain about you. He wants—so much to prove he's everything he once was."
Durell's face was like stone. He watched the Chinese girl move across the room like a long-legged colt but not without a practiced roll of the hips and a long, sidelong glance at him out of her black almond eyes. She could have won a beauty contest anywhere in the world. She had charm, good looks, the body, and the brains. He didn't trust her much farther than he could have thrown her.
"What would you like me to do about George?" he asked. "In the way of being 'kind,' that is."
She pouted. "Oh, you know."
He said, "I'm going to see to it that George is fired and pulled out of Pasangara as fast as possible," Durell said in a flat voice. "I think he's a bit insane."
She looked shocked. She turned away from the view of the river through the veranda doors, walked toward him, and then stopped, tilting her flower-like face up to his. Her mouth was open, her moist lips parted, and she seemed to have stopped breathing.
"But—why?"
"Did George really send you here, Lily?"
"No. But—oh, please, I'm so upset—"
"Where can I reach him?"
"He told me not to tell you."
"I think you had better."
She turned away, opened her beaded purse, and took out a cigarette. Her gestures were young, awkward, but very feminine. Her eyes watched him. She said, "Did Colonel Tileong hurt you very badly? Your face is badly bruised."
"Where can I reach George?" he insisted
"Everything is so mixed up, isn't it?" She smiled, then dropped the purse, and puffed clumsily at the cigarette. "All I know is that I love him. I've loved him since we first met six months ago when I came back from school. He's fine and gentle and understanding, and I feel so sorry for him—"
"Don't confuse pity with love, Lily Fan."
"I don't. I understand about all that."
"How old are you, Lily?"
"Twenty-two."
He looked at her. She blushed.
"Well, nineteen," she said. "But it makes no difference! George and I—well, it's wonderful with us, and I don't care what people think about it. He deserves a new chance, and I'm going to help him get it." She paused. "He sent you a message. That's why I'm really here."
"Good. May I have it?"
She searched her purse again, handed him a folded sup of paper, and looked perplexed. "I tried to read it. I must confess I was curious. But it's in code. Even George couldn't read it. It came in over his radio from Taipei. He tried it on a funny little machine he has, but it didn't come out making any sense."
Durell took the paper but did not look at it. "You'd better go home. Your father will be worried about you."
She stood very close to him. Her scent was heady and exotic. She was very beautiful. She put her hands on his shoulders and folded her fingers behind his neck. He didn't like that grip, but she didn't go any farther, and perhaps she didn't mean anything by it. Her body pressed against his.
"I'd do anything to help George. Anything."
He smiled. "George wouldn't like that."
"George wouldn't have to know about it, would he?"
"Has he shown any jealousy about you?"
She shrugged, and since he did not react to the pressure of her body against him, she drew away a little but still kept her hands clasped behind his neck.
"You don't like me, do you?"
"I want two things from you, Lily. I want a telephone number where I can get George and a few moments to read this message. Are you sure he couldn't decode it?"
"He was very annoyed about it. He didn't want to send it over to you, but I told him he'd better because you might be expecting it."
He turned a little sidewise toward the light that came from the veranda, unfolded the paper, and scanned it. He had memorized the new code that McFee had given him in Taipei before he flew here, and thanks to his mnemonic training, he could read it as if it were in clear.
It was a 0/22 URGENT, citing a protest from the Pasangaran provincial government, timed 2200 hours yesterday, regarding his activities in the city. The important element in the message was a priority request for a surveillance estimate of Hammond's reliability. It was just as well that Hammond had not been able to decode it.
The last part of the message cited a crate of missing Mk. 27 Rad. Deflect devices called Boomerangs, which had been stolen two months ago from a U.S. Army Quartermaster depot in Saigon but presumably had found its way into the Vietnam black market. Detailed descriptions of the crate of Boomerangs and its markings followed.
Lily Fan pressed her small, lush body against him again, standing on tiptoe. "Is it important?" she whispered.
"No, not at all."
"Is it about George?"
"Nothing about George," he said, smiling down at her. "How long can you stay here, Lily Fan?"
"All night, if you want me."
"Where can I reach George? You must tell me."
"You won't hurt him, will you?"
"Not if I can help it."
She wriggled her hips and slid her black eyes sidewise around the room and said, "Phone 22-63-22."
"Where is that telephone located?"
"I don't know. It's where I always reach him before we meet at the apothecary's place."
"Very good, Lily. Now be a good girl and take your hands off me."
Her eyes popped wide open with surprise and chagrin. "But I thought—don't you want—"
"No, Lily. Go home."
When her grip tightened around his neck, he flexed his knees forward, bent his head, reached back, caught one of her fingers, and tried to pry her loose. She was strong and very good at it—but not good enough. She gave a small cry as his pressure threatened to break her fingers. She brought one knee up dangerously, but he turned sidewise to her, hooked the leg she rested her weight on, and flipped her backward. Her grip on his neck flew apart, and she thudded against the bed, bounced on it, and came up grabbing for her httle purse. Durell reached it first. She gasped, tried to scratch him, her face transformed by fury. Nothing like a woman scorned, he thought. He backed away from her, but she came on like a little cat, snatching for the bag. Instinctively he slapped her—hard enough to throw her back on the bed again. It creaked. A spring whined. He wondered what the listeners on Colonel Tileong's mike would think of it. At the moment it didn't matter. He got the purse open and found, among cosmetics, a five-inch switch blade and a tiny, pearl-handled .28, a "husband-killer." Lily Fan was a remarkable girl.
She breathed hard, contemplating a new plan of action. Her hand groped at the buttons over her breasts. He didn't want her to scream and find himself a victim of the badger game with the girl who was the premier's daughter. He twisted her hand aside, picked her up bodily, and carried her, wriggling, to the door. Opening it, he deposited her in the outer corridor.
"You're a love, Lily Fan. But not tonight, do you understand?"
"Oh, you are a bastard," she gasped. "I've never been so insulted and humiliated—"
"I'll give the knife and gun back to George, when and if I see him again."
He closed the door firmly in her furious face.
15
The telephone rang four times before it was picked up. Durell listened silently, hearing someone breathe hard for several moments. Then Hammond's voice said:
"Yes?"
"Cajun here."
"Yes?"
"You're not surprised?"
"All right, I'm surprised."
"You thought Tileong still had me?"
"Yes, that's what I thought."
"You didn't do much to help me," said Durell.
"There was nothing I could do."
"You could have used your influence with your future father-in-law. After all. Premier Kuang—"
"What do you want, Cajun?"
"Boomerang devices."
"What?"
"Boomerangs. Where are they?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. It's hot and I'm sleepy. Are you at the hotel? If so, I'll call you tomorrow. I'm going back to bed."
"Not with Lily, you won't."
"I don't—"
"She was just here with me," Durell said.
There was a long silence.
"What's all this about Boomerangs, Cajun?"
"I asked you first."
"I told you—and what was that crack about Lily?"
"She came here with your message. And she loves you enough to beg me not to do anything to hurt you, George."
"Jesus."
"And she offered to stay with me for the night."
There was a longer silence this time. Durell looked out over the veranda to the park and the little dock where the river steamer was moored. The stevedores had stopped working. The floodlights were turned out. The park looked dark and quiet. He moved back from the veranda doors so he wouldn't be seen against the light by anyone in the shrubbery. Then he reached out and turned off the single lamp in the room. The darkness felt better but hot and sticky.
Hammond said, "You're lying, Sam. She isn't hke that. I know women."
"You've lost touch," Durell said. "The pill, the generation gap."
"You son of a bitch."
"I want to ask you something, George."
"To hell with you."
"From your safe house you could see me running to the canal, couldn't you?"
Assignment White Rajah Page 9
