Assignment- Mermaid

by Will B Aarons

  "Darling! I thought you were dead!” she cried in a hoarse whisper.

  "Did he tell you that?”

  "Who?”

  Durell turned to look.

  Link was gone. Probably running like a dog with its tail afire. Durell hesitated, undecided whether to give chase, then looked at Sirena and chose the bird in hand.

  "Link,” Durell replied. "He brought me here.”

  "Why?” Bewilderment clouded her pretty face.

  "Lazeishvili—he thought Lazeishvili was here.”

  She looked more puzzled, then shook her head, as if deciding to ignore her confusion, and slipped her arms around Durell’s neck. "I’m so glad you are alive. Kiss me?” Her perfume was a dizzying fragrance.

  Durell’s tone was abrupt. "Forget that. I’ve got to find Lazeishvili.”

  He pulled her arms away, Link a hot worry at the back of his mind. The man might bring the whole place down on the both of them. And, if he did get away—and it was he who had Lazeishvili all along . . . Durell frowned.

  "Are you incapable of ’ove?” she asked hotly.

  "You seem to be doing all right in that department without me,” he said.

  "Oh! What was I supposed to do? Costa has always stood beside me!”

  Durell tried to concentrate on one thing at a time. "Listen. You were on Rhodes with Link and Lazeishvili, right?”

  "Yes.”

  "In the tunnels under Panagiotes’ villa?”

  She looked bewildered again. Then annoyed. "We didn’t go there.”

  Durell gripped her upper arms, making her flinch. "Where did you go?” he demanded, under his breath.

  "First, a windmill. Then Lindos—an old house in Lindos.”

  Durell felt a chill clutch his heart.

  He’d been had.

  Link had taken him on a wild-goose chase, while the Russian dissident was still on Rhodes, doubtlessly locked away where Link had hidden him. And Link would be halfway to the airport by now.

  His hand slid to hers. "Come on!” he snapped.

  She resisted. "Where? You think you can spurn me, then order me about?”

  "You’re the only one besides Link who knows v/here Lazeishvili is. Even if I lose Link, maybe I can get the Russian—”

  Then, incredibly, Link’s voice came from across the room. "Sorry, old sport. You’re going nowhere.”

  Durell spun toward the door, thought of the gun in his jacket pocket and rejected it. He saw with dismay that he hadn’t a chance. Link, an eyebrow arched sardonically, towered beside the smaller Panagiotes. And the chromed .32 in the millionaire smuggler’s hand waited lethally for the slightest wrong move.

  Link spoke through a smug smile. "Thanks for forcing me to bring you here. It was just what I had counted on. Costa and I have been doing business together for a long while.”

  Durell waited, sensing what was coming. He saw it in Link’s narrowing falcon eyes.

  Then Link said: "Shoot him, Costa. Or I’m afraid I shan’t obtain any more of those nice munitions dear old Papa has been shipping you on the sly.”

  18

  "Raise your hands, please.” Panagiotes spoke in English, his voice calm and controlled.

  Sirena moved away from Durell as he lifted his hands.

  Panagiotes told Link to take Durell’s pistol and give it to him. Link did as ordered and stepped back, as if to watch a spectacle.

  "Killing me will only make matters worse for you,” Durell said.

  "Really? Are they so bad?” Panagiotes said.

  "I’m not the only one who knows about your arms racket.”

  "I should hope not; only the others are more appreciative.” He chuckled.

  "Nor am I the only one who knows that you hijacked some ten million dollars worth of uranium consigned to someone else.”

  "Ah. That is dangerous knowledge, Mr. Durell.” Panagiotes’ cheeks went hard.

  "Who else has it?” Durell pressed.

  "Don’t you know that, too, Mr. Durell? Uzuri, of course. That is why the Nereid was kept on a course for southern Africa. A delaying tactic. Hopefully, the government of Uzuri would believe its uranium was still on the way there, while I disposed of it here.”

  Durell knew a grim sense of alarm. The white-dominated regime of Uzuri was surrounded by hostile countries affording sanctuary to thousands of guerrillas who plagued it. Most of its trade and arms supplies had been cut off by UN sanctions. The white minority had struggled with increasing harshness to maintain its control over the immense black majority, and Durell realized it was only another logical step to use nuclear weapons to turn its infiltrated borders into radioactive wastelands. If its neighbors found the means to retaliate, the holocaust could spread across the whole planet.

  "We all know the Russians have always backed the guerrillas; they wouldn’t sell weapons-grade uranium ore to Uzuri,” Durell said.

  "Of course not.” Panagiotes smirked, his dark glasses shining. "The Nereid’s official destination was Italy. The Russians thought I was acting as intermediary for industrial users of yellowcake.”

  "It was the Russians who attacked your villa, wasn’t it? They wanted to kill you before you could move the uranium beyond their reach.”

  "That would have been possible.”

  "They have the Nereid now, you know. They cleaned out your warehouse and sailed away.”

  Panagiotes drew an angry breath. "I did not know!”

  "That’s enough chit-chat,” Link broke in.

  Durell said: "Of course, all I’m really interested in is Aleksei Lazeishvili—and Link O’Dell has him. I wouldn’t get further involved, if I were you.”

  "Ah, yes,” Panagiotes said, nodding slowly. "The Russian dissident. I know his story from Sirena—she is a great admirer of his.” He turned to Link. "You are holding him prisoner?”

  Durell intervened. "He’s holding him for a million dollars ransom, to be paid by the Soviet and/or the United States government.”

  "So.” Panagiotes drew out the word thoughtfully.

  Link spoke hastily: "I’ll split it with you, Costa. For helping me now. But don’t you see? We must get rid of this man!”

  Durell glanced at Sirena, and she looked away. She seemed strangely aloof for one concerned with the welfare of Lazeishvili.

  Panagiotes kept the shiny little automatic on Durell as his other hand moved to reassure Link. "Floundering in debt has become a sad way of life for you, my friend. We mustn’t forgo this opportunity to put an end to it. No, I don’t want your money. As for removing the obstacle that Mr. Durell represents—”

  "Yes?” Link urged.

  "I presume the Russians are on Rhodes, looking for Mr. Lazeishvili, if the Americans are?”

  "The damned place is swarming with them.”

  "Then we must go there, obviously.” Panagiotes turned to Sirena, and said: "Change into something more suitable for travel, my pet. You will fly us.”

  "Yes, darling.” She hurried from the room.

  Link sounded puzzled. "But what are you going to do on Rhodes?” he asked.

  Panagiotes smiled his thin smile. "Contact the Russians,” he said. "Why not let them take the blame for Mr. Durell’s murder? I’m sure they will do so gladly.”

  "That’s a marvelous idea, old fellow.” Link’s eyes gleamed malevolently against Durell’s hard gaze. "Simply marvelous,” he said.

  The moon was low when they arrived at the village of Lindos on the east coast of Rhodes. Perhaps a thousand years before Christ, this had been one of the most important cities in the Mediterranean. Now it was a mere fishing village of salt-white houses clustered around the base of its proud acropolis on the promontory of Marmari.

  They had flown by helicopter from the roof of the penthouse to Ellinikon. Then Sirena, dressed in white slacks and a blue, print blouse, had ferried them to Rhodes in the Learjet.

  Link was at the wheel as they drove into the village and parked in front of a darkened restaurant adjoining the intercity bus depot. The tw
isting, cobbled alleys were too narrow for a car. They walked uphill from the bus stop until Link identified a white-plastered stone house as the one he sought.

  There was a smell of wild thyme in the dew-laden air. High over the village, the dark acropolis, topped by a crusader fortress, loomed in the night haze.

  Link unlocked the door, led the way inside. Panagiotes, still in his tuxedo and dark glasses, brought up the rear, his pistol showing in his hand.

  Some of the houses had lasted more than a millennium. They had become tourist attractions, with their painted ceilings and safes hidden high in the walls to thwart pirates. But this one was in disrepair. Bare wooden beams supported a planked ceiling; plastered walls had sloughed away to show patches of rough stone. There was a simple table and bench, a pair of upright chairs with wicker bottoms, a narrow iron bed covered with a gray blanket.

  Aleksei Lazeishvili lay on the bed, ankles tied together, wrists bound behind his back. Blood matted his hair and soiled the blanket under his head.

  "What happened to you?” Sirena cried.

  "I'm afraid I had to cold-cock him to tie him up,” Link said. "Just a bit of split scalp.”

  "It’s nothing, my dear,” Lazeishvili said. He sounded hoarse with fatigue, as he tried to reassure her. There was anger and fear in his mist-green eyes. His face was darkened by a beard grown since leaving the Nereid. His tweed jacket was rumpled and soiled beyond belief.

  Sirena hurried to him and bunched the blanket under his head to form a pillow. "I’ll get some water and clean the wound,” she said. Her eyes flared at Link. "Filth! Scum! How could you do this?” she shouted.

  Panagiotes spoke suddenly: "Come away from him. Over here.”

  She hesitated, then meekly obeyed.

  Panagiotes told her: "He won’t suffer much longer, my dear, I promise you.”

  "Can’t you untie him, Costa?”

  "I’m afraid that is impossible.”

  "At least,” Durell said, "he’s better off than Hank Ross.”

  "Hank Ross?” she asked.

  "Link killed him.”

  She drew a sharp breath and stared at Link.

  "It was a sad necessity, I’m afraid,” the thin man said, his tone mocking. "Couldn’t have the fellow blab all over the island, could I?” He indicated the Russian. "As for this gentleman, he will be released tonight.”

  "Perhaps sooner,” Panagiotes said.

  "Yes,” Link seconded. "The minute I receive word from Geneva that a certain deposit has been made to my account. We mustn’t be premature, you see.”

  "Oh, we needn’t wait for that,” Panagiotes said, the dark glasses flickering with yellow lamplight.

  "What do you mean?”

  Without answering, Panagiotes said: "Find some of that rope you used on Mr. Lazeishvili, won’t you? And then tie up Mr. Durell.”

  Durell thought he was beginning to see what was happening, but Link seemed oblivious as he retrieved cotton line from beneath the bed. Panagiotes would not need Link much longer.

  "What was Charles Cullinane doing at your house?” Durell asked.

  "Oh, that fellow,” said Panagiotes. "Some bad luck, he had. He was found stabbed and nearly dead aboard the Nereid the night the cargo was switched, off Rhodes—”

  "Stabbed?” Durell was incredulous.

  "It was not possible to investigate, considering the circumstances. We took it for a sailor’s brawl. We transferred him to my villa. I could hardly risk having him admitted to a hospital where he could tell about the secret transfer.”

  "Then he was just an accidental victim, when the Russians firebombed your house.”

  "As I said—bad luck.”

  Link brought a wicker-bottom chair. "Sit down,” he said harshly.

  As the man bent to wrap and knot the cord, Durell considered booting him in the face and knocking him back into the Greek. But Panagiotes was too wary. He stood at a safe distance.

  Durell spoke to Link. "You’re a fool; every knot you tie is another seal on your death warrant.”

  Link’s chuckle was nervous. There was sweat on his narrow cheeks, beads hanging from the ends of his pencil mustache. "Don’t try to psych me out, Durell,” he said. "This is the endgame; this is where all you’ve done comes together, and you either win or lose. If you made the wrong moves earlier, it’s too late to remedy them now.”

  "I don’t need a chess lesson from someone who doesn’t know when he’s in check,” Durell replied, and felt the ropes bite tightly into his legs, pulling them against the chair.

  "Divide and conquer? Is that your desperation plan? It’s so stale, really; it’s laughable.” He moved around the chair and tied Durell’s hands behind it.

  "Your pal with the gun isn’t laughing,” Durell said. His eyes switched to Sirena, searching, probing.

  Her black irises seemed to go dull, as if closing him off, and she turned to Panagiotes. "What are you going to do with him?” she asked, pointing at Durell.

  "Leave him here. Let the Russians come and find him. They will know where to look; I’ll see to that.”

  "Very well, do what you must,” she said. "But I’d rather leave now. I’ll wait for the bus. You can find me at my apartment when it’s over.”

  "You will wait and ride with me,” he said.

  "Don’t make me, darling.” She glanced at Durell. He could not read the meaning in her eyes.

  "You will stay,” Panagiotes said flatly.

  Link straightened. "All trussed up,” he announced, and brushed his long hands together.

  Panagiotes spoke hurriedly. "Almost. Loop a cord around his neck and tie it to his ankles. Keep him from hopping about too much in that chair.”

  Durell felt a noose drop over his head, the pain of a jerk that bent his neck back. When Link had finished, he was only a fraction away from strangulation, the rope digging into muscles and tendons that strained and cramped in an effort to hold the pressure away from his windpipe.

  "Good,” Panagiotes said. "Now you and Sirena help me carry Mr. Lazeishvili to the car.”

  "Why?” Link’s annoyance was evident. "Look here, you’re acting a bit high-handed. . . .”

  "Come, my friend. Are you letting Mr. Durell’s words worry you? Naturally, he would hope so; words are all he has left.” Panagiotes cast quickly about, found a filthy rag, balled it and stuffed it into Durell’s mouth as a gag. "Now, let’s move Mr. Lazeishvili.” He breathed heavily in his anger.

  Link hesitated, as if feeling events slip beyond his control. Panagiotes smiled. "Would you leave them both here to help one another?” he reasoned gently. "Besides, when the Russians come for Durell, do you think they would leave Lazeishvili here and pay a ransom for him later?”

  "But where will we take him?”

  Panagiotes looked quickly at his wristwatch. "My yacht will be docked in Mandraki Harbor by now. Come. It will be daylight soon.”

  They disappeared, the Russian gagged and slung between them like a sack of grain.

  Durell struggled against the ropes, but a sudden tightening of the noose almost throttled him. He waited. He could hear the whimper and sawing of breath in his constricted windpipe. The pain was almost unendurable; every move to lessen it only made it worse. Finally, he sat very still. His situation seemed hopeless.

  A few minutes later, he was surprised by the return of Panagiotes and Link. Sirena was with them, speaking as they entered. "I could have waited in the car,” she said.

  "Not just you and Mr. Lazeishvili,” Panagiotes replied. "I’m afraid you’ve developed an emotional attachment to the man—”

  "And you don’t trust me!” Her voice was outraged. "No,” Panagiotes said simply.

  Link spoke: "But what’s the point? What else is to be done here?”

  "The point?” Panagiotes said. "The point, my friend, is that you must die.”

  "But—surely you’re not serious, Costa.” Link’s lips twitched; fear and disbelief slackened his cheeks.

  "You are a fool and a blun
derer. You have been totally out of your depth. I have no doubt that Mr. Durell would attest to that.” He held out the bright little pistol.

  Link backed away from the evil snout. "I told you I’d give you half. Half a million, Costa. And there’s no way to get it without me.”

  "I’m not interested. Really.”

  "Wait.” Link spoke with breathless speed, as if on the words he could outdistance death: "You can have it all; all but a hundred thousand;I must have that much, my creditors—”

  "You still don’t understand, do you?” Panagiotes said. "It’s the ten million I’m after; ten million dollars worth of uranium oxide. If Mr. Lazeishvili is as important as he seems to be, I have an idea the Russians will willingly make a trade—after all, they’ve been paid for the ore. It will cost them nothing.”

  Link turned to Sirena. "For god’s sake, say something!”

  She just stared at him, her eyes petrified.

  "I never intended to kidnap Lazeishvili,” Link cried, working to sway her. "He just fell into my hands. I didn’t realize until then that I could!”

  Panagiotes’ jaw turned hard; his dark glasses flared in the lamplight as he aimed.

  Link threw out his hands. "Costa . . . !”

  There was a small, sharp report, and Link said: "Uh!”

  Durell saw blood above Sirena’s chin. She had bitten her lip at the instant of Link’s death. She had not uttered a sound.

  19

  The KGB soon would be on its way here.

  Durell could not guess how long he had, because he did not know when Panagiotes would contact the Russians. It was only thirty-five miles to Rhodes Town. He wondered what time it was, his watch out of view, behind his back. When would daylight come?

  That Panagiotes would be able to make contact with the KGB, Durell did not doubt. The man’s wealth and power were pervasive, otherwise he could not have got by so long with his smuggling operations.

  Yes. The comrades, the men Durell had opposed for what seemed a thousand years: they would rush to him almost lovingly in their eagerness to kill him. It would be their big day.