Assignment - Manchurian Doll

by Edward S. Aarons

  Then she disappeared inside.

  Durell stepped quickly and pushed open the shuttered door to the Chinese chemist’s and went in. A strange scent of chemicals and herbs mingled with the starchy odor of fresh laundry. There were gloomy cases of ceramic jars, a grinning devil’s mask hanging from the ceiling, an abrupt feeling of darkness after the bright street outside.

  The girl was already at the back of the shop, opening a rear door, when Durell jumped across the room and caught her wrist. She gasped and tried to spin away.

  “Hold it, honey.”

  “You’re hurting me—please—who—”

  “You know who I am,” Durell said.

  She tried to tug her wrist free. Her bones were small and fragile, though her body was more mature than those of most Japanese girls, and her boyish haircut made her look hoydenish. Her ripe mouth was angry, no longer frightened, and her eyes were tough and cynical. He knew his grip hurt her.

  “All right, I won’t run away,” she yielded.

  He said: “You followed me all morning, from the airport to the temple grounds. Who are you?”

  “My name is Yuki,” she said.

  “Did you see who killed Waldo Fingal?”

  “No, I didn’t see it happen. I was waiting for you to come out. Please, I’m not your enemy. I’m supposed to take you to my father.”

  “And who is he?”

  “Tagashi-san—he works for you, doesn’t he?” Her English was that of a schoolgirl, spoken with a sing-song cadence. He eased his grip on her wrist. There seemed to be no one else in the chemist’s shop. “I followed you because he wanted to be certain nothing bad happened.”

  “But something did, didn’t it? To Waldo Fingal.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said. She looked sulky, massaging her wrist. “My father got me a position in the Soviet Embassy, as a personal maid for Nadja Osmanovna. You know the name? I’ve been there for a week. He arranged all my papers. Do you understand? I was about to go to my father now. You can follow me.”

  “I intend to,” Durell said. “Why did you give up the job of tailing me?”

  She hesitated. ‘T saw Omaru’s men at the temple. I wasn’t afraid, but I thought it best to leave.”

  She looked like a stubborn, defiant little liar. He did not know if she was really Tagashi’s daughter, but he meant to find out. The girl annoyed him.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go see Tagashi.”

  He ducked through a beaded curtain at the back of the shop, went out into an alley and through a wooden doorway, and found himself with the girl on the grounds of a restaurant inside an area bounded by a high wooden fence. Here the crush and pressure of Tokyo’s streets were abruptly replaced by the calm interior beauty where the Japanese truly lived. Durell followed the girl down a winding path and caught the scent of lemons from her, as if she had been eating citrus fruit.

  There were small houses around a carp pond set in a cleverly irregular garden decorated with stone lanterns. The place was busy, crowded with Japanese men attended by waitresses in the light, gaily colored yukata kimonos. In a little house that bore the ideogram for Plum Hut, Yuki Tagashi stood aside and gestured impatiently for Durell to precede her.

  “You first, honey,” he said, smiling.

  “But it is perfectly safe. I am not your enemy.”

  “One never knows. Stay ahead of me, Yuki.”

  Tagashi and Eliot Barnes were waiting in the small room furnished with foot-high tables, tatami mats of straw, and the traditional tokonoma, the sacred alcove, in which a small jade vase and a spray of chrysanthemums glowed with economic beauty. Eliot and Tagashi were seated at the table, and Tagashi lifted himself easily, a tall, spare man, to greet Durell.

  Durell slipped off his shoes at the entrance and watched the girl slide to one side, bowing to her father.

  “Irassahi, Durell-san.” Tagashi had a strong Kansai accent from Western Japan. “Come in, you are welcome.”

  Eliot grinned and extended a hand. “Hey, Cajun. Long time no see.”

  Durell suspected that Tagashi had once been a member of the dreaded Kempei-tai, the Japanese secret police of World War II. He was sure the man was still operating with the Japanese security bureaus, whatever his job with K Section. Tagashi had cropped gray hair, and he stood much taller than the average of his countrymen. His face was hollow, hard and dangerous. His eyes were tough. Next to him, Eliot Barnes with his straw hair and freckles looked like a youngster fresh from a sand-lot ballgame in a Midwestern town.

  “Please be seated,” Tagashi said courteously. “We have ordered lunch.” He looked amused. “You met my daughter?”

  “Yuki introduced herself. She works for you?”

  “She is a bright child.” Tagashi’s hard eyes touched the girl’s jeans and shirt with disapproval. Yuki stared blankly at Durell. “She gave us some interesting information last night, while you were still flying from the States. But of course, you must give us your own views first. We are at your disposal, Durell-san.”

  “Thank you. Is this place secure?”

  “Perfectly, Durell-san.”

  Tagashi’s looks and manner reminded Durell of his grandfather, old Jonathan, back in Bayou Peche Rouge. The old man lived alone on the hulk of an ancient Mississippi sidewheeler that had been Durell’s boyhood home, and much of his training as a hunter had been derived from the old gentleman’s wisdom. Tagashi had much the same qualities as old Jonathan. He was a gambler, familiar with the hazards of an adventurer’s life. He was professional. He was still alive. And Fingal had been an amateur.

  Durell’s briefing was terse and concise. The two other men listened quietly. The girl didn’t move.

  He discussed Colonel Alexi Kaminov’s motives and sincerity in sending the message that he wished to seek political asylum in America.

  “According to our files, Kaminov was with the MVD, allied to the military. He had a fine record in World War II, fighting around Minsk and Moscow—and at Stalingrad, too. He was only nineteen then, and our own government decorated him. He lost a leg at Stalingrad, by the way. Afterward, he did desk work for the Guard Directorate in Moscow, then was transferred to Peiping in 1958 as a military attache. Never married. Handsome, six feet two, blond, mustache. Trained originally as a ballistics engineer. Now he’s an expert in Sino-Soviet relations.”

  Eliot Barnes cleared his throat like a schoolboy. “Sam, SEATO is yelling for help. Southeast Asia is boiling under the lid, and we need dope on Red Chinese troop movements. Getting data is like groping in a dark closet. We can’t put our own people into China, and our people in Hong Kong and Macao are unreliable. Even the Soviets have their problems with their alleged Chinese allies, eh? If Kaminov comes over, he could answer a lot of pressing, urgent questions.”

  Tagashi said: “Our information on Colonel Kaminov is that he was in Sinkiang last year, then Tibet. Lately he was spotted in North Viet Nam. A month ago he went to Manchuria. He’s there now, somewhere, but we don’t know exactly where.”

  “At Pere Jacques?” Durell asked quietly.

  There was a blank silence.

  Tagashi said: “I do not understand.”

  “Neither do I. It’s a code name for the place where Kaminov is waiting for us to pick him up.” Durell spoke without emotion, telling of his encounter with Waldo Fingal, and how Fingal was killed. No one commented. Tagashi’s hollow face was watchful. Eliot Barnes began to sweat a little. Durell said: “It casts a question on Kaminov’s sincerity. For myself, I think he’s willing to defect, but he’s being used by his people and by Kaiwa as a trap for me. They’d like to get me on their own territory.”

  “Let’s scrub the whole operation,” Eliot said.

  “Not as long as we know what’s going on.” Durell lit a cigarette. “Let’s assume Colonel Kaminov is waiting for us. We can only reach him through this girl of his, Nadja Osmanovna. She knows what the phrase, Pere Jacques, means. We’ll have to get it out of her.”

&n
bsp; Tagashi said: “She will be difficult.”

  “She may be impossible,” Durell agreed. His smile was taut. “We can only hope that this woman has a weak spot— that she’s in love with Kaminov and is willing to help him. But I want to know more about Omaru and his Kaiwa outfit.” Eliot coughed. “We’ve been using him. The Kaiwa Trading Company has headquarters in Akijuro, on the coast in the Tohuko region. SEATO knows that Kaiwa has been running stuff for the other side, too, but up to now their double-dealing balanced out pretty well. We figured on using Kaiwa to smuggle Colonel Kaminov across the Japan Sea—and then we’d smash Kaiwa flat. Does that bother you, Sam?”

  “Not at all,” Durell said.

  “Don’t underestimate Omaru. He’s made millions out of Kaiwa. He pushes propaganda, payrolls, munitions and sabotage agents for the Chinese, using Japanese fishing boats and junks up and down the East Asia coast. We were going to clean him up last year, but he ran some people for us into some pretty difficult places, too, for Agency work in the jungles. It kept him alive in our books. But the balance is sour now.”

  Durell looked at Tagashi. The man’s face told him nothing. He asked: “Do we wait for Omaru to contact us?”

  “We cannot wait,” Tagashi put in. “Our first job is to get Nadja Osmanovna. Yuki brought us word that this woman is taking the Blue Dove express tonight for Akijuro. A holiday, presumably. But we cannot be certain. I have taken the liberty of arranging to have her removed from the train at a certain point during the trip, since our information was that the presence of this woman is one of the conditions under which Kaminov will defect. I have tickets for all of us on the train, by the way. It can be done easily.”

  “We kidnap her?” Durell asked.

  “Precisely. Tonight.”

  “Fair enough. And Omaru?”

  “We must make our deal with him, I think—at least, in the beginning.”

  Durell shook his head. “I think not. He killed Waldo Fingal today. I think I’d rather eliminate him. We’ll smash Omaru’s apparatus flat.”

  Eliot said: “I’d really like that.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Blue Dove express to Akijuro was four hours out of Tokyo’s red-brick Central Station when Durell walked easily through the cars to find Eliot Barnes. He had made contact with Tagashi with fifteen minutes to spare. The other Americans or Europeans on the train were people on leave from various missions, economic or military, in Tokyo. The Japanese in the corridor nodded politely, with tentative smiles; most often, they simply ignored him.

  Eliot was asleep in their first-class compartment. He looked defenseless, his shirt collar open, his necktie dangling. Durell could see the gun under his coat, and he was momentarily disturbed by Eliot’s carelessness. He entered quietly and Eliot stirred, but when he saw the beatific smile on the young man’s face, he realized that Eliot still slept.

  “Do you hear those drums?” Eliot whispered, his eyes still shut.

  Durell sat down opposite him. He heard nothing but the click of the rails of the Japan National Railway.

  “Hear those bugles?” Eliot murmured, still smiling in his pleasant dream.

  “What are they for?” Durell asked quietly.

  Eliot sighed. “They’re all for me.”

  “Is that right? Why?” Durell asked the sleeping man.

  Eliot’s mouth was smug. He looked as American as apple pie. “It’s classified,” he snapped.

  Durell watched him for a moment, smiling wryly at Eliot’s dream, but disturbed by the way Eliot talked in his sleep. No bugles blew, no drums boomed, in Durell’s business.

  He looked at his watch. Fourteen minutes to go.

  “Eliot, wake up.”

  Instantly, the other’s eyes popped open, clouded briefly by sleep and dreams. Then they focused sharply on Durell. The slight movement of his hand to his gun was checked.

  Eliot grinned. “Did I do it again, Sam?”

  “Yes. Up to the classified bit. You never go on.”

  “Ah, hell. What time is it?”

  “Fourteen to go. Tagashi is in the dining car. It’s all set. The subject is still in her compartment. She has two guards, ugly types from the Embassy. Tagashi plans to take them out when we get to the Minayoru Tunnel.”

  “Fine,” Eliot said. “It’s a piece of cake.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You worry too much, Sam.”

  Durell nodded and left, walking forward to the dining car alone. The time was exactly 10:17. Dusk had fallen early after the Blue Dove rolled out of Tokyo and Issu and the ugly industrial complexes, and it was now too dark to see much of the neat countryside of fields, mountains and villages. When he sat down at the table with Tagashi, Eliot was due to move toward the locomotive, with two of Tagashi’s uniformed train guards. Others of Tagashi’s crew would take out the plug-uglies guarding Nadja Osmanovna’s compartment.

  Tagashi smiled thinly. He was eating sushi. “All is in order. The shipment is definitely aboard. We will take possession very soon now. I trust you are satisfied?”

  Durell nodded. The dining-car was crowded, with a sprinkling of Europeans among the Japanese travelers. A waitress in kimono and traditional hair-do came down the aisle for Durell’s order for cakes and tea. When she was gone, there came a stir at the opposite end of the dining car as a man and woman entered. A slight hiss of surprise came from Tagashi. Some of the Japanese in the car stood up and bowed, their courtesy directed at the woman.

  She had an electric quality of Japanese beauty that was at once imperious and feminine. She wore a kimono of heavy black silk, embossed with a red and yellow Saga embroidery; her dark hair was piled ornately, and her pink face was carefully masked with make-up. Most of the men stared at her, but Durell turned his attention to the man who walked half a step ahead.

  He was enormous, like a sumo wrestler, with a round shaven head and tiny piggish eyes set in folds of fatty flesh. Only the slightest hint of Asia was evident in the slant of his eyes. His mouth was as predatory as a barracuda’s. His ponderous step was graceful, countering the rock of the train. His huge belly loomed past Durell, and for a moment their eyes met. Durell thought there was amused recognition in the fat man’s gaze, a faint narrowing of lids, a compression of the bloodless mouth. Tagashi bowed stiffly to the lovely, doll-like woman who trailed after the big man.

  The woman smiled faintly as she passed. Tagashi sank back in his seat and sighed. His manner was taut.

  “It was not in the arrangement, Durell-san,” he said thinly. “You know that man? It is Omaru—and his wife, the baroness Isome. Do not be deluded—he carries muscle, not fat. He has killed three men with his bare hands. You know he is more Irish than Japanese? His true name was O’Mara. He is the equivalent of your syndicate bosses, of course. I did not expect to meet him until we arrived at Akijuro.”

  “Then he knows our plans for Nadja Osmanovna,” Durell said. He looked hard to the gaunt Japanese. “It means there’s been a leak somewhere.”

  “I fear so,” Tagashi said quietly.

  The Blue Dove express sped like a frightened snake through the twisting valleys of the Japan Alps. The ting-ting of a warning bell sounded briefly as they flashed through a village nestled against the dark mountainside. The night was black except for the occasional flicker of town lights along the railroad’s right-of-way.

  The Minayoru Tunnel was one of many bored through the crests of Japan’s rugged heights, and Durell and Tagashi had selected it because of the motor road that curved alongside near the entrance and then divided into several lesser highways in the mountains. It gave them a choice of routes for the last hour’s drive by car to reach Akijuro on the shores of the Japan Sea.

  Tagashi had arranged for the train crew, the car, the split-second timing to halt the train and kidnap Nadja Osmanovna.

  It was necessary to operate as quickly and quietly as possible, to avoiding attracting the attention of the local police.

  At precisely 10:31 the Blue Dove swung into
the last upgrade to the Minayoru Tunnel. The train was slashing along at seventy miles an hour when Tagashi pulled the emergency cord. At that moment, Durell appeared at one end of the target coach and Eliot at the other. The brakes hissed, the whistle shrieked, the train lurched. The two plug-ugly guards had been standing idly, smoking, outside Osmanovna’s compartment. Tagashi’s two men came out of the next door, shouting angrily as if in a quarrel. No one else was in sight.

  Tagashi’s men were tough, bandy-legged professionals. Either of the two Russian guards looked big enough to break them in two, but as they turned their flat, solemn faces in startled suspicion, the Japanese sailed into them with deadly and efficient ferocity.

  There came the flat sound of a karate chop, a grunt, a thud. One of the big KGB men slammed to the corridor floor. The other was a bit faster—but it did not save him. The two Japanese swarmed over him with a series of lightning blows; the man’s jaw dropped, his eyes glazed, and he went over like a felled tree. Tagashi’s men stepped aside, bowed, panting, as Durell and Eliot Barnes met outside the compartment door.

  Eliot grinned widely. “After you, Cajun.”

  Durell tried the door. It was locked. He fished out a picklock, inserted it quickly, and slid the latch inside, just as the train came to a grinding halt on the curve outside the tunnel. Eliot followed him in and the two Japanese dragged the Soviet agents over the threshold and out of the corridor.

  “Nadja Osmanovna?” Durell asked quietly.

  The girl was on her feet, her eyes wide, her hands at her sides a little distance from her smoothly tailored hips. She looked at the two unconscious guards, then at Durell, and her pale brows lifted in arrogant inquiry. She showed no fear.

  “What does this mean, please?”

  Durell deliberately replied in English. “You will come with us quietly. We are friends. There is no reason to be afraid. But we must hurry.”

  She was alone in the compartment. There were two leather grips on the rack, and Eliot slid past Durell and fanned the place, picking up the girl’s leather handbag and searching it briefly, then giving it to her. He took down her thin raincoat from a hook. Nadja Osmanovna—she looked much younger than Durell had expected—followed Eliot’s movements with wide, intense interest that was almost clinical. “And just what do you think you are doing?”