Assignment White Rajah

by Edward S. Aarons

  "You couldn't."

  "I could, George."

  The older man breathed a bit too quickly, his thin face strained and became taut, his limp more pronounced as he moved around the small heap of equipment he had left on the cave floor. There was a slight quiver in Hammond's hand as he rammed his gun into Durell's belly.

  Durell said, "You're too close to me, George. You know that's not proper procedure. They don't teach us that any more. Stand your distance."

  "You're a pretty smart cookie, Cajun."

  "What happened to Chiang Gi? Who killed him?"

  "Who do you think?" Hammond countered.

  "It wasn't you."

  "Hell, no. He was useful."

  "It was Paul Merrydale," Durell said.

  "That's right."

  "It's been young Merrydale all along?"

  **That should be no surprise," Hammond said.

  "And Tileong?"

  "He'll be here. I think he's around somewhere, right now."

  "With Paul?"

  "He's walking into a trap. He doesn't know how strong the guerrillas are. He thinks it'll be a piece of cake."

  "And the Thrashers?"

  "Haven't seen them or the pilots." Hammond sounded angry. "I've wasted a lot of time trying to keep you off my tail, Cajun. This is my game, understand? I've waited a long time for this chance. All those long-haired psychiatrists saying I was knocked off-balance, claiming I'm too trigger-happy, too hungry to kill, too old to stay in the business! I'll show the lot of them, the bastards. I'll let them hear my name again, you can bet on it."

  "Take it easy, George."

  "Don't patronize me!" Hammond shouted. He stepped back. The gun in his hand trembled violently for a moment. His craggy face looked like death's head in the guttering light of the candle on the floor. Then suddenly he grinned, reached in his khaki shirt, and took out one of his thin Dutch cigars. His eyes never left Durell's face as he snapped a wooden match aflame on his thumb nail.

  "You knew I was waiting for you near the Land Rover last night?" he asked, his voice suddenly quiet.

  "I smelled your cigar smoke," Durell said.

  "And you thought I was trying to knock you over when you played Sir Galahad and dived into the canal for Pala Mir?"

  "Your aim was just a bit off."

  "There's nothing wrong with my aim. Nothing at all. You were dead in my sights. Dead, buddy-wuddy. But I figured you might be useful, somehow. I changed my mind several times since then, trying to stop you from getting here."

  "We still have to work together, George."

  "Why?" Hammond asked flatly. "It's my game."

  "I'm thinking of the pilots."

  "Who?"

  "The Thrasher pilots. I think they're still alive. Maybe they're prisoners upstairs in the palace."

  "No, they're not there. They're dead, chum."

  "Are you sure?"

  "It's an educated guess. Why should the Pao Thets keep 'em and feed 'em?"

  Durell was stubborn. "I think they're alive, and it's our job to get them out of here."

  "And?"

  "And get the Judas pilot who used the stolen Navy Boomerang devices to throw the Thrasher navigation instruments out of whack so they had to follow the Judas instead of getting back to the carrier."

  "You figured that all out?"

  "It was obvious," Durell said.

  "And who is the Judas?"

  "Sometunes it's Paul," Durell said. "But not the last time, because he was with Pala Mir at her river house when I first met her."

  Hammond grinned. "That's right."

  "Do you know the other one, then?"

  Hammond lowered his gun and backed away, the cigar clenched in his yellowish teeth. His eyes were hidden in the shadows of their deep sockets under his bushy brows. He limped to the canvas-covered equipment he had put on the cave floor, hefted his gun, and looked sharply at Durell.

  "I ought to wipe you, really, here and now."

  "You can't," Durell said.

  "Why not?"

  "The Rajah is behind you with his rifle. He's still a crack shot. He got through your booby traps, too."

  Hammond stood very still. Something like despair glittered in his eyes, but then he said, "I don't care if it is a bluff. I'm tired." He put down his gun, turned his back on Durell and the crevice, and began unpacking the small cases he had brought with him.

  Durell let out his breath. It seemed as if he had been holding it for an eternity.

  "My Uzi?" he said.

  "Them Israelis make a nice machine," Hammond said. "Pick it up. And take some of these grenades. Tell that old coot to put down his elephant gun. I've got to jind Lily Fan."

  24

  They drank lukewarm tea out of battered tin cups, the water heated by one of Durell's Thermit sticks. Pala Mir sat cross-legged on the floor, her lovely face impassive in the candlelight. The Rajah stood at the far end of the cave where a flight of rough steps carved out of the rock led up to the lower levels of his former palace.

  Durell wished he could read Hammond's face. The hatred and envy were still there. He had the feeling that Hammond was strung out at the end of a long, taut wire and that the wire would soon snap.

  "I've been hstening to the gooks up there," Hanmiond said, jerking his thumb upward. His speech was tight and precise, but he did not look at Durell. He kept

  watching Pala Mir's quiet face. "We have to get through the gorge to the airfield. It's guarded, of course, and there's a village at one end that we'll have to pass. The Malays there are practically prisoners, used for labor services by the Pao Thets. I've already been through the gorge and back. I came back to wait for you, Cajun." He grinned but with a senseless grimace that was not sane. "The old man won't be able to make it."

  The Rajah said quietly, "I came this far, sir, and do not intend to stop. This is my province whether I once ruled it or whether I am just another citizen. But I would like to ask a question."

  Hammond shrugged. "Go ahead."

  "You said Tileong will be here with his troops. They are well trained for guerrilla warfare. Why do we not wait for his reinforcements?"

  "We can't wait," Hammond said. "They're taking the Thrasher jets to bomb Pasangara at dawn, as a start of their campaign to turn Pasangara into a so-called People's Democratic RepubUc. Semantics, of course. It will be ruled by Peking via Hanoi. The Peking emperors, just like the new Soviet czars, are always hungry for new lands to ruin."

  "But if they use U. S. Navy planes—" the Rajah paused, and his face went gray.

  "Exactly. The world would never get the facts straight afterward. But your grandson, Paul, hopes to be named— ah—premier. It's his dream to regain power for the Merrydale name—even if he is an emperor's puppet."

  The Rajah picked up his rifle with a trembling hand, then put it down again. Pala Mir moved closer to him. The old man started to speak, looked helpless, and then lowered his head.

  "I'm very sorry to hear this about Paul."

  "So you'd better stay behind," Hammond said bluntly.

  "No, Mr. Hammond. One must do what one's conscience dictates. If Paul is at the heart of this, then he is one of the enemy."

  "I intend to kill him," Hammond said. He looked utterly cruel. "Do you still want to come along?" The Rajah nodded.

  They moved in single file up the narrow steps of the lower levels of the mountain palace. There were long, dank corridors, all empty; a few doors that the Rajah indicated could be opened; and empty, cavernous storage rooms. From up above, once, they heard a burst of drunken laughter, and one time they heard a single shot.

  Hammond led the way. Durell was the rear guard. Windows opened out on the valley, showing the mist of deep dusk. There was less than half an hour of daylight left.

  At the top of a final stairway, a door led them to a weed-grown garden. There was a smell of camp smoke and wet vegetation in the air. It had stopped raining, and the heavy trees dripped somberly on the once-elegant paths.

&nb
sp; Hammond held up a warning hand. They halted. The sound of men talking came clearly to them. Just beyond the door to the garden was a small bamboo chair.

  Lily Fan sat there. She looked dejected.

  A small, bandy-legged guerrilla stood nearby, smoking and talking to her.

  Hammond's breath made a thin soimd. "We have to get out this way. And I want that girl."

  "We can go around somehow," Durell said.

  "No. I want her. The bitch. She's been Paul's mistress all along. Pumping me for all she could learn out of the consulate's security files. Handing it over to the Pao Thets via Paul."

  "Let it go," Durell said.

  Hammond shivered, staring at the sloe-eyed Chinese girl. Durell pushed Hammond's gun down. "Not that way, George."

  "You're right," Hanmiond agreed quietly.

  Before Durell could check him again, Hammond stepped calmly out into the garden. The guard turned, his flat face wrinkled with astonishment. Before the man had any chance to shout or raise his gun, Hammond was around and behind him, the barrel of his rifle pulled hard across the other's throat, while Hammond jammed his knee into the man's kidneys. Lily Fan started to rise, terror in her eyes, but Durell jumped and caught her arm as she swung about, clapped a hand over her mouth, and checked her scream. There was a crunching sound as the guerrilla's throat was crushed. Lily wriggled Uke an eel in Durell's grip. Hammond let the dead man slide to the ground and swung to face the girl. His face was dark with rage. Durell lifted Lily Fan bodily aside, still mufiling her mouth.

  "Don't kill her, George."

  Hammond shook like a tree in a high wind. His gaunt face looked ashen; his blood-dark eyes regarded the terrified girl for a moment, and then the Rajah stepped forward.

  "I believe," he said gently, "we had all best leave this place before we are seen."

  The trail through the gorge was difficult. Evening mists clung to the rocky scarps, permeating the vines that fell hundreds of feet downward. A small stream thundered far below. It began to rain again.

  Lily Fan was forced to go first with her hands tied behind her and a gag in her mouth. Small whimpering sounds came from her throat. Directly behind her, Hammond forced them on at a cruel pace, his limp more exaggerated but his steps sure and quick.

  The rain pounded their backs, the darkness grew more ominous, and then it ended. A long streak of golden sunlight shot through the rolling mountain clouds. They had come to the end of the gorge.

  The path widened, and they stood several hundred feet above the main road that entered the valley. Bamboo and vines screened them from a small hut down the slope where two or three small men with slung rifles stood looking at the rainbow that now arched across the sky.

  Mist lifted like steam from the sodden earth. It was a reprieve, Durell thought; they still had enough daylight left.

  "Hold it here," he said.

  Hammond, who had started down, pushing Lily ahead, turned an angry hatchet face toward him. "What for?"

  "Take it easy, George."

  "Listen, I know the way— **

  "But we don't."

  Hammond shrugged, staring out over the valley. Durell took the Rajah's binoculars and considered the problem spread out below them. The airstrip was at the far end of the mile-long valley floor, and it had been developed into the equivalent of an aircraft-carrier deck slashed out of the surrounding jungle. At the near end of the valley the road went through a small village on the banks of a mountain stream. Durell scanned the single street and saw several moving figures, but he could not determine if they were Pao Thet or civilian. Parked at one end of the airstrip was a twin-engined Beechcraft— Paul Merrydale's—and close by was a thatched hangar for it.

  At first, he could not determine the other buildings hidden under their camouflage of vines. Then he suddenly discerned the spider-web tower of a radio transmitter above the foUage. Lowering the glasses, he saw the shapes of long native-type barracks leap into recognition. Several men lounged there, eating, with their weapons beside them. Under the camouflage net the earth was pounded flat, as if the guerrilla base had been established here for some time. He swung the glasses back to the end of the airstrip to study the jungle again, found the wide trail, and even made out the drag traces where aircraft had been hauled off the strip out of sight. He could not see any Thrashers; but he knew they were there.

  The thick jungle all around the valley looked safe enough. He wondered if Tileong and his antiterrorist people had arrived, and if so, where they might be.

  **Come on, let's move," Hammond said harshly. He knelt on the trail and opened his pack, displaying half a dozen grenades and Thermit bombs, which he stuffed into the big pockets of his bush jacket. Nervous energy vibrated all around his tall, gray figure. He seemed transformed by the prospect of violent action ahead. Durell checked him and said, "I'll take half the grenades."

  "What for? I can handle this alone."

  "But you're not alone. It's a job for both of us, remember?"

  Hammond's eyes were bleak. "All right. We'll eliminate the village first—"

  "No. The pilots have first priority," Durell said. "Some of them have been prisoners here for weeks."

  "Then they're dead."

  "Maybe not. But if we blow the village first, we still have half a mile to get to the barracks at the other end of the field. Enough time for the Pao Thets to put bullets into their necks."

  Hammond straightened, scanning the valley before him. The clouds were shredding, and the sun was pouring in from the west. Mists moved over the jungle down there. "I told you," Hammond said, "I've already scouted the place. I'll lead the way. Just do as I say."

  "We'll go together," Durell said.

  "I'm going to scrub that son of a bitch Paul," Hammond said. "With extreme prejudice, as the office says."

  Durell looked for Pala Mir and the Rajah. Hammond had not tried to lower his voice. Lily Fan was watching him, her eyes filled with horror that certainly was not faked now. Over the gag stuffed in her mouth, she seemed to be straining to speak to him. He stared into her black eyes, and she blinked them rapidly, as if fighting back tears. But then Pala Mir spoke quietly.

  "Mr. Hammond, whatever my brother's faults and mistakes, Paul is not an animal to be hunted down."

  Hammond spoke ferociously. "Your brother is a vermin, a traitor to Pasangara. He betrayed you and your

  grandfather and put the whole province in jeopardy. I*m going to kill him."

  "He should be allowed a trial," the girl said evenly. "It's you who's acting like a mad dog."

  Hammond grinned meaninglessly but made no reply. Durell took four of the grenades and pocketed them. The Rajah coughed. He looked better, despite their grueling race through the gorge.

  "If I might make a suggestion—"

  "No, sir," Hammond said bluntly. "This is my game. I'm in command. Durell has been assigned to me. and all of you will do as I say. I won't allow any foul-ups. I'd rather you all stayed right here until I'm finished down there. I can do it better alone. If you think—"

  "I know a way around the village," said the old man. "I merely wish to end this tragedy as quickly as we can."

  Hammond weighed his automatic, then said, "We'll see. As far as I'm concerned, you're all just excess baggage. But I can't leave you here. One false break, though, and you get it. I don't tolerate any slip-ups."

  Pala Mir looked at Durell, as if expecting him to challenge Hammond. But Durell's face was like stone.

  They started down into the valley.

  The descent was easy enough under the canopy of dripping trees. It was half a mile down to the trail that entered the village. Again, Hammond went first, almost dragging Lily Fan with him. Durell acted as rear guard, and presently Pala Mir joined him. She moved lithely, apparently not fatigued by the long day. She had bound up her dark hair in a roll of cloth, and without makeup her beauty had a calm simplicity. Her dark blue eyes, however, reflected small clouds of worry that came and went.

  "I
s he serious?" she asked. "About killing Paul?"

  "He's done such things before," Durell murmured.

  "But then—he's just a brutal murderer."

  "We all are," said Durell.

  She did not look at him. "Have you had assignments— where you were an assassin?"

  "I've killed men," he said simply.

  "When it was not necessary?"

  "No. Only when needed."

  "But Hammond is—"

  "I know."

  "Will you help me, Sam? I can't let it happen!"

  "Wait," he said.

  She walked on beside him for a bit, then said, "Something is not right, you know."

  "That's true."

  "It's as if the perspective of things is somehow distorted. I can't explain it. It's just a feeling I have."

  "I have the same feeling," he said.

  25

  Through a tall screen of green bamboo, glistening with diamond-like drops in the lowering rays of the setting svm, they studied the road two hundred yards from the village. A woman in a sarong with breasts bared to an infant hurried across the dirt street and vanished into one of the huts. Her brown face was sullen. A battered Coca Cola sign, an American gift to Malay culture, hung askew over a tiny shop. No men were in sight. The river ran fast and white after the recent rain, making white teeth that gnawed at the poles along its banks.

  Closer at hand, a mortar crew of three guerrillas with Chinese weapons squatted in the road while cooking rice over a small fire. Wearing black pajamas, they looked small but alert.

  Hammond waved a hand downward, and they moved left along the road until the crew was out of sight. When they came upon a soUtary guard who was sitting with his back against a flame tree and sucking at a cigarette, Hammond signaled to Durell. Durell stepped onto the road and said quietly, "Hey."

  The man looked up, his slanted eyes widening with shock. Then Hammond came up behind him, and there was a small thudding soimd as the knife went in. The man's legs buckled and he went down in silence.

  "All right," Hammond whispered. "Everybody across."

  Lily Fan stumbled and sprawled in the mud as Hammond shoved her. Ehirell helped her up. The others crossed swiftly and silently, and once more the bamboo swallowed them. In another moment they were at the river.