Assignment- Mermaid

by Will B Aarons

  Durell bent to Marty, who sat holding his arm, wincing. "Just the arm?” Durell yelled over the dash of waves and mourning wind.

  "I’ll be okay,” Marty managed to say. His face was drained of color; his red mustache stood out like a smear of paint.

  "Any luck finding Lazeishvili or Sirena?”

  "Master stateroom, below aft. Pretty sure. Those guys were guarding it. They chased me back up here.”

  Durell feverishly helped Marty to his feet. Blood dribbled through the elbow of the man’s jacket. "Get back aboard the HRC yacht,” he told him.

  "Hey, I can—”

  "Shut up. Close and brace the forward compartment doors, if you can. Go!”

  Durell did not look back as he hurled himself down broad steps, stumbled, splashed into swirling water up to his waist. He yanked the stateroom doorhandle. Locked.

  "Sirena!”

  Faintly, her voice came through the Circassian walnut door. "Sam? Open the door!”

  He hit it with his fist. It was solid as a tombstone.

  Lazeishvili’s voice came through, calm and deliberate. "There is a key. You must find the key.”

  "I’ve got a key; stand back,” Durell bellowed. The ship lurched sickeningly, threw him against a wall, hurled water all over him. He righted himself, aimed his gun at the lock and fired. The noise was deafening. An oily wisp of acrid smoke lay over the sucking water. The doorhandle plopped off and sank from sight. The door swung open, and Sirena waded out first, up to her waist in the flooding compartment. Fright contorted her face, water plastered her clothing to the curves of her body. She threw her arms around Durell.

  He pushed her away, held his gun on her. "Upstairs, quick,” he commanded.

  "Don’t let them get Mr. Lazeishvili—”

  "Get out of here. Topside.” He switched his eyes to the Russian. "You, too. Ahead of me. There’s been enough mischief.”

  Sirena fumbled her way up the passage, looked back, said: "I was only helping a great man—I’d do it again. If that’s wrong—”

  "We’ll debate it another time,” Durell shouted. "Move!”

  The sea was a seething maelstrom that threatened to drag both yachts under with merciless impartiality. It spat and hissed, tossed and clutched, a riot of wave and wind run amok.

  The Nereid came on relentlessly, off the port bow, in front of the shimmering black wall of the island.

  They had to climb out the skylight, across the slick deck that was the roof of the salon, the wind clawing at them. Sirena slipped, slithered down toward a verge of the superstructure that overhung the foaming water, was halted inches from calamity by the quick reach of Lazeishvili. Durell urged them on with the muzzle of his pistol. He was as wet as if he had stepped from a shower. His ears felt strangely deafened by the wild tumult. He hoped Marty had made it back safely. Every surface was slippery. And still there was the threatening odor of spilling fuel.

  They passed over the roof of the crushed wheelhouse. Durell glanced down and stopped, filled with abrupt alarm.

  Panagiotes was gone.

  At that moment the wind brought a cackling howl of insane laughter. The maniac quality of it froze his blood. He turned toward it and beheld Costa Panagiotes. The man stood atop the bow of the HRC yacht supported by his one remaining minion. The stump of his leg dripped blood from below a tourniquet made from his belt. He had lost his sunglasses: his eyes were small, protuberant, evil; they seemed to shine from hell.

  "You’ve ruined me!” he screamed. "But you’ll not get away with it! You’ll die; all of you!”

  He held out a wad of oily rags, touched a windproof cigarette lighter to them and tossed the flaming bundle into the gap in the black yacht, beneath the stem of the HRC vessel.

  Durell fired, but it was too late.

  There was a flash and a roar. . . .

  24

  Fire gushed from the fissure in the black yacht, up the hull plates of the white one and across the water, where the fuel had spread.

  Durell staggered back from the heat as he squeezed the trigger a second and third time. His bullets tore into the face and chest of the men. The millionaire’s assistant collapsed on the deck as Panagiotes reeled away. There came a short scream that showed a bloody mouth, lips skinned back. The tattered stump of his leg swung madly for footing. Then he toppled headfirst into the inferno.

  "What now?” Lazeishvili queried, as he braced himself on all fours against the heaving slope of the deck.

  Durell glanced at the Nereid; she looked immense, where she rose darkly above waves that thundered against her. A mute despair gripped him. Flames puffed from shattered porthole windows all along the hull of the Panagiotes vessel. Acrid smoke raked his eyes, burned his lungs. There seemed no way across the fiery hole to the bow of the HRC ship. And they were sitting on a mountain of TNT.

  "Are you satisfied now!” Sirena shouted, her dark eyes furious. "It’s too late to trade Mr. Lazeishvili to save your own life; the Russians can have him for the picking.”

  He ignored her, turned toward the white yacht and yelled: "Marty! Maar-ty!”

  There was no answer.

  The wreck on which he stood heaved and slipped, its bow awash, fire raging from every crevice.

  The whole thing would go any minute.

  Then he saw the boarding ladder. It was the type that was hung over the side for swimmers. It lay against the salon wall. He swung to Lazeishvili, making his pistol evident. "Get that,” he ordered, indicating the ladder. "Put it across to the deck of the other boat. Hurry!”

  Lazeishvili did as he was told. Flames coiled among the rungs, but not so high that a quick crossing was prohibited. The distance was no more than eight feet.

  Durell pulled Sirena up the deck, shoved her to the foot of the ladder. "Go!”

  She ran across as fast as she could, teetering, fire licking at the soles of her feet, the ladder swaying and dipping between the wave-tossed vessels.

  "You’re next,” Durell told Lazeishvili.

  The Russian just grunted, found his footing, darted across. Durell followed without mishap. "Into the wheelhouse,” he ordered.

  Sirena sucked a breath and stopped in the doorway. Durell looked past her, saw Marty sprawled on the floor. He was unconscious, evidently from loss of blood. Durell could only assume that he had managed to close the watertight forward compartment doors— because he had to get the yacht loose and headed for the island.

  The Nereid had passed the leeward of them and now crept toward the black yacht, no more than a hundred yards away through the blowing wave caps.

  He threw the HRC vessel into reverse, the throttles at full speed. It shuddered and labored. He held the throttles down, spun the wheel right and left and back

  again. Slowly, rocking and quivering, the big white yacht tore itself loose from the unnatural mating of twisted metal and splintered wood. Free of its burden, the black yacht righted itself, squatting low in the sea. Black and yellow smoke roiled across the water, blown in a hard, compact line by the gale.

  Durell put the wheel down hard and headed for Rhodes at top speed, the smashed bow battering into waves that staggered the ship.

  Behind, the Nereid seemed to have committed itself; it was creeping ever closer, coming alongside the Panagiotes yacht.

  He laid his gun on the counter and concentrated on the battle to reach shore. The bow was down, not dangerously yet, but obviously they were taking on water. The vessel advanced falteringly; it was like trying to drive a box car through these waves. The Russians must see his wallowing pace and know they had time to overtake him, if they didn’t spend too long at Panagiotes’ boat. They obviously didn’t know which of the yachts held Lazeishvili—but it wouldn’t take them long to find out.

  "Go back,” Sirena shouted. "Go backl"

  "Shut up! Stay out of the way,” Durell snapped.

  She grabbed for the wheel, and he knocked her away with a sweep of his arm. She sank to the deck, weeping in anger. He kept his eyes to t
he land far ahead: he would have to locate a suitable site for beaching well in advance, considering the sluggishness of the steering.

  Perhaps a minute passed.

  Sirena moved out of his vision, but he did nothing.

  Suddenly a hand snatched the Makarov pistol from the counter.

  "Now you will turn around. You have no choice. I am sorry.”

  It was Sirena, holding the gun on him, her eyes wide with fear and excitement.

  Lazeishvili smiled. "Let me have the gun, my dear.” There was an undercurrent of urgency to his quiet tone.

  "Yes, Aleksei.”

  The Russian’s gentle voice turned icy, heavy with unveiled authority. "You will take me back to the Nereid immediately,” he said, and brandished the pistol.

  Durell did not change course. "Don’t you think it’s about time you told her the truth?” he said.

  "What do you mean?”

  "You’re a ringer, a double for Aleksei Lazeishvili, aren’t you?” It was a statement of fact, more than a question.

  The Russian’s pale green eyes showed contempt. "I see no reason to hide it now—”

  Sirena’s stunned gasp broke off his sentence. "Aleksei! What are you saying?”

  The man waved the gun, and said: "Over there with Mr. Durell.”

  "But—?” She was utterly bewildered.

  "Move!” he snapped.

  He held the gun on both of them. "Allow me to introduce myself.” He grinned as if he enjoyed this. "I am Captain Oleg Andropov, Committee for State Security—better known as the KGB—at your service.”

  "Where’s the real Lazeishvili?” Durell asked.

  "Buried in Lubyanka Prison. We could hardly risk anything happening that might allow him ever to surface again—”

  "Because you were to spend the rest of your life in the west posing as him,” Durell supplied.

  "Precisely. Now, turn this vessel—”

  "You really expected to get away with this?”

  "I fooled you, didn’t I?” Andropov’s smile became a sneer.

  "Not in the end.”

  "Must I shoot you and take the wheel myself?”

  Durell just stared at him.

  Andropov stepped back, raised the pistol and aimed at Durell’s head.

  "No!” Sirena shouted, hands flattened in horror against the bulkhead. "Sam! Do as he says!”

  "It doesn’t matter,” Durell said. "He will kill both of us, anyhow. We know too much.”

  "Dosveeda ’nya, Cajun,” Andropov sneered. He pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped impotently.

  "You should have known I wouldn’t leave a loaded gun lying around for you,” Durell growled.

  "You swine!”

  "It did speed the process of getting the truth out of you, though. Get out of the way, Sirena.” Durell crouched, preparing to take the Russian with his hands. Andropov’s eyes narrowed as he drew back the heavy pistol, holding it clublike, a snarl forming on his lips.

  Suddenly, a wave of yellow-white light like the flash of a giant mirror glared through the wheelhouse, and there came the rumbling roar of a tremendous explosion. The shockwave slapped the yacht and set it on its beam ends. Everyone tumbled in a heap, Andropov on top. The gunbarrel cracked Durell’s scalp a glancing blow, and he rammed a knee at the Russian’s groin. Andropov hissed, dodged, swung again, but Durell caught the hand and broke the knuckles against the steel bulkhead. The yacht had righted itself. Sirena got out from under, finally. Something crashed into the afterdeck. Geysers spouted out of the waves. Durell’s chopping right hand bashed Andropov to the floor. The Russian was out cold.

  "Sam, I’m sorry—” Sirena began.

  Durell wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "Look,” he said, and pointed.

  There was no black yacht, only a vast, blowing cloud of smoke that still hurtled into the atmosphere, its base shattered by explosion after explosion. Debris twirled up, incandescent fireballs curved through the sky. The Nereid, her hull stove in by the blasts at a range of only a few yards, had already developed a fatal list. The big ship leaned further and further over the shattering volcanic fury, seeming to embrace each successive detonation. Then the pillar of smoke broke away, its base lifting to show only a boiling sea where the gunrunner’s yacht had been.

  The Nereid was sinking rapidly, fire raging amidships.

  By the time he had beached the HRC yacht, the freighter’s stem hovered high in the air, its two enormous bronze propellers revolving slowly. Then it slid away, and there was nothing.

  25

  "So,” Cesar Skoll said,

  "So,” Durell repeated.

  A night had passed. Reports had been communicated, orders received. Certain arrangements had been made, and this meeting in a small cafe on Rhodes was their purpose.

  "Where is Lazeishvili?” Skoll said.

  "Captain Andropov, you mean.”

  "You are stretching my patience, old friend.”

  Durell’s tone was not friendly. "Then don’t let’s play games. Andropov admitted his identity. There’s a witness.”

  "You tricked a confused man, that’s all,” Skoll insisted. "What made you think he was someone else?”

  Durell spoke casually. "He protested too much, in the first place; wanting to be turned over to the KGB had a phony ring. To you, Lazeishvili was an enemy of the people—but the man you had aboard the Nereid in the Suez Canal was in a first-class cabin. The door wasn’t even locked. But I let that pass.”

  Skoll listened attentively, his big hand almost smothering the glass from which he drank vodka.

  Durell went on: "Two things really nailed it down for me. One: finding that Charles Cullinane, Lazeishvili’s shepherd for the HRC, had been stabbed while Panagiotes transferred the Nereid’s cargo. It seems logical to assume that Cullinane had realized the Nereid was far off-course and saw his chance to get ashore and find help. Andropov wouldn’t have wanted him to do that and tried to kill him to prevent it—something that was in the cards for Cullinane sooner or later, in any case.

  "Two: your arrangement with Panagiotes to have Lazeishvili delivered to the Nereid yesterday. Having him aboard the Nereid seemed important in itself to you. That simply didn’t make sense, if he were really Lazeishvili.”

  Skoll said nothing, his blue Siberian eyes measuring the moody Durell. They sat at a simple wooden table, the only ones here save a white-clad cook visible beyond a serving window cut into the kitchen wall. The owner and his wife and niece, who waited tables, had taken Skoll’s money and left, but they said the cook must remain to look after food under preparation, Skoll had told Durell.

  The suits of the two men were dark with soaking water; the unaccustomed rain had continued into a second day. They had not troubled to purchase umbrellas or raincoats in the limited time at their disposal. Either side had barely enough time to arrange this rendezvous.

  Much throat-clearing; treading on eggshells.

  No one was happy.

  For the west, there would be no Aleksei Lazeishvili, with all that implied in humanitarian terms or matters of national security.

  For the Russians, a brilliantly conceived and meticulously planned scheme to disrupt and demoralize its dissident movement had been smashed.

  "Two hours, Cajun,” Skoll growled.

  "I know. That’s all the Greeks gave us.”

  Skoll made a sharp motion with his meaty hand. "Then it is get out of the country, or go behind bars.”

  "A pox on both our houses.” Durell’s voice was morose. He scanned the room once more, then the square outside. This was supposed to be neutral ground; feelings ran high on both sides. It would not have done for their men to meet as a group. The café was under one of the gothic arches of an ancient stone building that had served as palace for the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church until the Turkish conquest. Visible in the harsh rain was the Square of Jewish Martyrs, where, in 1943, German troops had rounded up two thousand residents of the Jewish quarter to be shipped to concent
ration camps in the Third Reich. The square, centered on a tiled fountain with bronze seahorses, was empty, the tourists frustrated by the downpour.

  Skoll spoke. "I came alone. That was the agreement. You don’t trust me?”

  "No,” Durell said. Skoll started to protest, but Durell cut him off. "We may as well get moving, anyhow,” he said.

  He crossed to a public wall phone, inserted one drachma in the blue box and dialed. He did not turn his back on Skoll. "Marty?” he said. "Bring him over.” He hung up and told Skoll: "They’re not far; he’ll be here shortly.”

  Skoll grunted, deep in his bearish chest. "If only you had believed me when I told you Aleksei Lazeishvili wished to return home ... So much unpleasantness could have been avoided. I didn’t wish to bump heads with you, old friend.”

  "You still contend the man is Lazeishvili?”

  "Of course.”

  "Cut the crap.” Durell spoke heatedly. "I told you Andropov spilled your beans. What’s more, you have that shipload of yellowcake to explain.”

  "Ho? I need explain nothing! However—should we have allowed Costa Panagiotes to dispose of it to international hoodlums?” Skoll narrowed his eyes wisely. "As one of our proverbs says—”

  "Spare me your homilies, Skoll.” Durell leaned across the table. "You knew all along that Panagiotes was buying uranium for Uzuri, not Italy—and you were aware early in the game of the HRC’s plans to smuggle Lazeishvili out of your country.”

  "Would we allow that to happen?” A pretense of disbelief popped Skoll’s eyes. "Come now. Maybe the little treatment we gave you in Egypt addled your mind.”

  "You could have stopped it, but it’s always better to turn events to your own purposes.”

  "What are you saying?”

  "You didn’t want it believed that Lazeishvili was in Russia—you wanted him thought to be in Africa,” Durell said. "If you had intended the yellowcake to be returned to the Soviet Union, the Nereid would have been bound for the Black Sea, not Rhodes. And you wouldn’t have risked sending the Nereid there just to pick up a man you could have flown back to Russia with half the effort. The freighter was on its way to the Suez Canal once more, and it was imperative for your plans that the man posing as Lazeishvili be aboard.”