Assignment- Mermaid

by Will B Aarons

  Then a muscular arm lashed out, and the ruddy knuckles of an enormous fist clubbed the face with neck-popping force.

  The fist belonged to the denim-clad man; the one Durell had thought was with them. . . .

  The Russian dropped as if through a trap-door. The one in the car shouted something, and Durell hopped aside. A fraction of a second later a single shot clapped out of the muffled interior.

  Lieutenant Maximov was on hands and knees, scrabbling for his weapon. The second KGB agent lay on his back, heaving drunkenly to roll onto his side, a bewildered hand massaging his slack jaw. The flow of pedestrians had frozen as if at a command.

  Durell ran, rounded a corner, peered back. The big blond fellow loped up beside him. Durell kept his eyes on the Russians. "You got a name?” he asked.

  "Hank. Hank Ross. We better get out of here.”

  "In a minute, Hank.”

  The driver jumped out of the Mercedes and hauled the guy Hank had flattened into the car, helped by the one from the rear seat. They got back inside and the driver gave the car a screaming surge of gas as Lieutenant Maximov dived into the front passenger seat.

  "Why didn’t they come after you?” Hank asked. He was breathing harder than Durell.

  "They had their chance and blew it. They don’t want trouble with the cops, any more than I do.” The Russians must have realized their mistake and decided to eliminate him, as they should have done in Egypt. They would be back, he judged. He took a breath and regarded Hank with searching eyes.

  "Russkies?” said Hank.

  "The worst kind.” Only then did the question startle him. "How did you know?”

  "I know lots.” Hank grinned.

  "Why did you tail me? What made you help?”

  "You’re Sam Durell.”

  "You know me?”

  "Yes. And that answers both questions.”

  "Not for me, it doesn’t.”

  Hank wiped sweat from his round face. Strands of kinky blond hair, darker than the rest, stuck to his forehead. The air was still and hot. "Let’s say I’ll do anything for a buck. I got a story to sell. You’ll be interested.”

  Durell considered him warily.

  "I’ve been waiting two days to see if you’d come back to your hotel. Then I had to wait for you to get rid of that old geezer—who was he, anyhow?”

  "No one you’d know,” Durell said.

  "I’m tired of waiting. C’mon.”

  Hank’s bulking figure turned on sneaker-clad feet and started down the street, toward Mandraki Harbor. Durell guessed it might be worth it to go along.

  They followed the gentle slope to Platía Sýmis and passed the arsenal with its gothic arches. Its dressed stones made a patchwork of tan and brown shades in the glow of artificial lighting. Sightseers wandered about, admiring in hushed voices, as if in fear of awakening old gods, the remnants of a 3rd Century B.C. temple of Aphrodite. It amounted now to little more than the butts of a few fluted columns banked by pink oleander. Symi Gate, on the right, gave a brief view of the commercial harbor, called Emborió, with its fortified embracing parapets. That was where most cruise ships and the steamers from Piraeus berthed. A white Karageorgis liner with twin stacks was out there now, radiance blazing from a thousand portholes.

  They walked rapidly on through Freedom Gate, neither man speaking.

  Durell glanced back. Nothing there; nothing he could discern.

  Hank led him onto Akti Bouboula, which ran atop the mole that protected the seaward side of Mandraki Harbor. He did not trouble to hide the surprise that crossed his face; Hank was steps ahead. All that was out there were three ancient windmills and, at the tip, Fort St. Nicholas, its little lighthouse glowing,

  The air was cooler beyond the narrow streets of the old town. A few caiques with upswept bows and stems lay quietly at their moorings.

  Ragged light played over the harbor water.

  Music throbbed from distant tavernas.

  Hank slowed at last and began talking: "I guess you think I’m nuts, taking you out here, but listen, what I’ve got to tell you—well, I don’t think you’d want it getting back to them Russkies. This is about as safe a place as we can be.”

  "I’m waiting,” Durell said, as he walked. "Where did you learn about the Russians?”

  Hank chuckled. "That’s part of it; part of what I’m going to tell you.” He strode along. "I hung around that hotel just on the chance that you would pop up again—I got a look at the register, so I knew you hadn’t signed out. A few drachmas was all the desk clerk asked to tip me off who you were.” He spit from the mole.

  "All right, but how did you know about me to begin with?” Durell worked at being patient.

  Hank stopped, faced him, showed a lopsided grin beneath his small, round eyes. "You know a chick by the name of Sirena Alatis?”

  Durell was shocked, then baffled. He said nothing, trying to think ahead.

  "Greek broad. Short. Sexy?”

  "Where is she?” Durell growled.

  Hank shrugged and resumed his stride, big feet swinging along. "Wherever she is, she doesn’t ever expect to see you again—”

  "Because she doesn’t want to, or—?”

  "She thinks you’re most likely dead. I heard her talking to that Lashverry—how do you say that name?”

  Durell was aware of a quickening pulse. "You saw him?”

  "He was very laid back—very collected, you know?”

  "Let’s hear it from the beginning,” Durell said, his voice controlled.

  "The beginning? Sure. I was stranded on this rock pile a week ago. The company that owned the ship—”

  "The Nereid?”

  "What?”

  "The name of the ship.”

  "Naw. Day Star, Panamanian registry. Anyhow, the captain told us the owners were broke. Most of us were put ashore without pay; it happens sometimes. The ship sailed back to Marseilles with a skeleton crew. I didn’t have enough money for a room in a flophouse, much less to get back to the States. I’ve been bunking in that windmill up there.”

  He pointed at a dim shape in the night, some distance ahead, and continued: "Then, about three nights ago, these people came into the windmill, Alatis, Lashverry and a guy name of O’Dell. It was some ungoldly hour of the morning, way before daylight.” Durell surveyed the windmill, excitement mounting. No illumination showed through its door or the single square window, high under its eaves. "Are they still there?” he asked.

  "No—but I have a clue where they are. You want to find them?”

  "Very much.”

  "It will cost you.”

  The man had mentioned the right names. He doubtlessly knew something. "It will have to be worth it,” Durell said, deciding to lead him on.

  "We ought to be able to work out something. See, I was supposed to help O’Dell. He said the Russkies were after Lashverry, and he’d pay me five hundred smackers to be a sort of a guard for him, just for a day or two. He said I was to make sure Lashverry didn’t leave the windmill. For his own good. And if anybody came snooping around, I was supposed to get rid of them.”

  They had arrived at the windmill, a giant barrel of stone with a conical roof. While Hank went inside and struck a match to the wick of a kerosene lantern, Durell hung back and peered carefully down the length of the long mole. A light breeze hummed in the bare spars of the windmill. A boat’s horn sounded from Emborió, sending a deep, mournful sound over the gaily lighted town.

  Durell entered the windmill aware of a vague sense of unease, nothing he could articulate. He willed it to the back of his mind, thankful for the .38 under his arm.

  "That Lashverry, he was no dummy,” Hank said, and held up the lantern. "He got Sirena to come on to me one time while O’Dell was out. I’m standing here looking out the door, and she comes sidling up all sexy—she was a sexy chick. Asks me would I like a cigarette, then lights up two Assos Filtros, takes one out of her mouth and hands it to me. Says, 'How about going up to the loft. Just us.”

>   Hank rolled his eyes and smirked. "Can you beat that? But then, just when she has my tongue hanging out about a foot, she yells for me to look out—I guess she couldn’t go through with it, after all; I know they were in it together. Anyhow, she yells, and I turn around and catch Lashverry ready to bean me with a wine bottle. I had to punch him. There’s the place the bottle broke.” He pointed to a red stain on the stone floor and shook his head grimly.

  "Why do you think Sirena was helping Lazeishvili?” Durell prodded.

  "She didn’t like me. A guy can tell. But she thought Lashverry’s shit was ice cream. They were always whispering.” A wry look came on his face, and he shook his big head and said, thoughtfully: "I sure earned that five hundred bucks. Sure did.” He turned his eyes on Durell. "Trouble is, I didn’t get it.”

  "And you want it from me.”

  "I heard enough to know Lashverry was some kind of big-wig. You came back to get him, right? That’s what that was all about, back there at the hotel. The Russkies want to get him, too. And they are willing to knock you off to do it.”

  Durell watched the man’s small, round eyes. "Go on,” he said noncommittally.

  "I figure what I know is worth more than five hundred.” Hank looked crafty.

  "It may not be worth anything.”

  "Say twice as much?”

  "How do I know, if you don’t tell me?”

  "In the ballpark?”

  "If it’s solid, maybe.”

  Hank’s enormous chest filled with a satisfied intake of breath. "I didn’t want to have to go to those commie bastards,” he said.

  "That would have been unpatriotic, wouldn’t it?” Durell said, his voice flat.

  "I’m thirsty. Let’s go up to the loft and talk. Got a bottle up there.”

  Now Durell followed Hank, who carried the lantern in front of himself. The man blocked out a hell of a lot of light, Durell noted. He was huge. His aim seemed simple enough: he was a stranded sailor, and he needed money—

  A cold, hollow feeling spread in Durell’s chest.

  He needed money—

  What if Hank were still working for Link? Or with him, a willing participant in the kidnapping? Had he helped Durell escape the Russians to lull him? Lured him out here feeding him bits of information each step of the way, like a mouse led to the trap by a trail of cheese?

  Trap.

  Durell remembered the vague apprehension he’d felt on first entering the windmill. It wasn’t a rational thing; more like a hunch, a sixth sense that had paid off for him at other times.

  He raised his eyes, up to where the ascending stairs disappeared in high darkness. He moved with a controlled and wary tension as they rounded the great grinding stones, wooden gears and hoppers that took up most of the floor. Hank went up the narrow steps first, and Durell followed, his hand loose and ready to reach for his gun.

  They came out in the loft, where the sail-powered drive shaft connected with massive peg-gears that drove the stones below.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. No one else was here.

  Yet the feeling would not go away.

  He saw a five-foot gap of darkness in the yellow lantern-glow, where the loft was divided into two parts. Hank’s dufflebag lay on the other side. There was a bottle of cheap wine and a crumbly chunk of white cheese on a piece of wrinkled brown paper.

  Hank slid out an eight-inch plank to bridge the black chasm. He brushed his hands together, and said: "I pull the board over with me when I get on the other side, so some hood doesn’t come up and knock me over the head some night. You got to watch yourself in these harbor towns.”

  It had the ring of truth to it. Everything he had said did. Durell felt some of the tension flood out of him.

  Hank stepped onto the plank, the lamp in a meaty hand held out for balance, and Durell followed.

  Hank spoke over his shoulder: "Pretty neat, huh?”

  Durell started to reply, but never got the chance.

  A sharp, snapping noise came from under his feet.

  "Hey—!” Hank yelled.

  Durell felt himself falling, stomach in his mouth, a blur of lantern light spinning into the void below his eyes. Radiance whirled against the walls.

  He flung out his arms.

  The lantern crashed.

  Darkness.

  Durell’s senses returned slowly; he thought he must be in his own bed, dreaming.

  There were feverish pains, dull aches. His eyes opened, but it was as if he were surrounded by dark mirrors. His ears heard, but only echoes. His awareness was brittle. It snapped away, came back. Crumbled.

  Vanished.

  He was lying across something resilient.

  Beyond the door frame, the harbor was ghostly.

  Something sounded . . . the lips of a shoe across stone. He lay very still, understanding now that he had landed on top of Hank Ross, and that had saved his life. He remembered the loft, the plank, the blinding descent. How long ago? He had no knowledge of time having passed. He might have been unconscious a minute or an hour.

  The slip-slip of shod footsteps approached slowly and cautiously.

  He closed his eyes. Hank was dead, he was fairly certain. There was no heave of breath, no thud of heartbeat in the body beneath him.

  Through the lids of his closed eyes came a yellow, membranous glow that must have been cast by a flashlight. A hand touched his wrist, lifted, let it drop, took it again.

  The killer.

  After all Durell had been through, he didn’t think he could move a muscle. But he would. For this he would burst out of his grave.

  The finger probed the veins under his wrist, seeking a pulse.

  He’d waited long enough.

  His hard grip surprised the delicately probing hand. A swift yank of the arm, and the man made a cry of surprise and stumbled. He found his balance, and Durell felt a countering jerk for freedom. It was too late for that. Durell’s left hand swiped blindly through the darkness, clouted a cheek, gripped a collar and twisted. At the same time, he lurched up and buried his fist in the ridged muscles of a solid midsection. The man woofed, sagged. He did not go down, because Durell still held the twisted, throttling collar. He cocked a right . . .

  "Don’t!”

  The man looked up pleadingly.

  Only then did Durell see the face, illuminated feebly by the oyster-colored glow filtering through the windmill doorway.

  It was Link O’Dell.

  16

  Durell stood over the bent figure with his fist raised. His astonishment passed quickly, but the pain and anger stayed, making him tremble from head to foot.

  He hit the man as hard as he could, full in the face. There was a satisfying crunch, and Link catapulted backwards and went down on the seat of his pants next to his smashed flashlight.

  Durell was on him like an unreasoning animal, slapping and pummeling with both hands. Link threw crossed arms in front of his dazed eyes; Durell swiped them aside effortlessly.

  "For god’s sake . . . !” Link whimpered.

  The next blow knocked him unconscious.

  Durell straightened, suppressed an urge literally to kick and beat the man to death. He took a step back, forced himself to calm his fury. His breath came in taut, rushing gasps. He swallowed, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He could not afford to kill Link O’Dell; nothing must happen to him before he had revealed the whereabouts of the dissident scientist.

  He stumbled across the room to Hank. He’d been right before: there was no pulse. There was not much to be seen in the low light, but it was enough to bring a grimace of distaste. The face looked like something smacked by the windshield of a speeding car.

  A weak stirring touched his hearing; he turned, aimed the beam of his penflash on Link, and told him to get up off the floor.

  Link faltered. He still wore the same clothing he’d worn the night they boarded the Nereid, the tan jumpsuit and scarlet ascot. Only now the jumpsuit was smudged and grimy, and there was a lace of
salt where sweat had stained the neckband of the ascot. His falconlike eyes blinked at the light. Angry welts stood out on cheek and forehead, and blood oozed from his nostrils. He sat leaning on one arm, rubbed the back of his neck.

  "I suppose you can explain why you attacked me,” he groaned, his voice petulant.

  "You kidnapped Aleksei Lazeishvili. You killed Hank Ross.” Durell’s voice became a threatening growl. "You double-crossed me.”

  "Rubbish!” Link snorted. He got unsteadily to his feet. "All rubbish!”

  Durell drew his pistol and held it loosely. "You almost killed me—”

  "Listen to me!” Link shouted. "It’s a Russian trick. We were here, Sirena and Lazeishvili and I. In this windmill. Hank helped us. The Russians must have found out somehow! Hank may have . . . I don’t know!” He rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

  "May have what?”

  "Tried to deal with them. The Russians.”

  "Playing both sides?”

  "He wanted to deal with you, didn’t he? Why not? He told his story to them, and they arranged an accident so he wouldn’t tell it to anyone else. I saw the broken plank; it had been sawed on the underside.”

  It was logical, Durell thought. Not probable. "Did he know where Lazeishvili is now?”

  "I—I didn’t think so. No, I’m sure of it. But he knew other things. He knew that I had him, that Sirena was

  involved. He was an important part of the trail, and he knew that.”

  "Where is Lazeishvili?”

  "I can take you to him.”

  "Surprise, surprise.”

  They drove in a rental Fiat that Link had hired. It was almost midnight. The town seemed deserted, except for an occasional flower-hung disco or taverna, where files and circles of dancers could be seen through open doorways, linked arm in arm as they did the syrtdki or kalamatianós.

  Durell kept his gun on his lap. "Why did you come to the windmill?” he asked.

  "I’ve checked daily with the St. John, in hopes you’d return there—” Link began.

  "How did you avoid Hank Ross?” Durell interrupted. "He’d been watching the hotel; he was more than a little upset that you’d run away owing him—is that why you killed him? You couldn’t trust him, if you couldn’t pay him?”