Assignment Moon Girl

by Edward S. Aarons

  Durell glimpsed a pale blue color, tugged a crate aside, let it crash to the dust. He yanked the cloth free. It had been tightly balled, and was covered with gun grease. Under it were a half-dozen new U.S. M-3 Army rifles, obviously stolen, illicit, smuggler’s goods. But the guns did not interest him as much as the pale blue silk he held in his hand. He felt as if someone had kicked him in the belly.

  It was the robe Tanya had worn when he last saw her. His voice became dangerous.

  “Where did you get this? Where is the girl?”

  The fat Farsi’s cheeks quivered. The woman wailed and loosed a torrent of quick abuse at her two men. The Arab stepped forward with a curious mincing gait. The rising sun was enormous behind him, glowing through the tamarisks that stood about the village well. “Where is she?” Durell asked again, climbing out. “We know nothing, sir! Please give me the key to my truck.”

  “Are you running from the Army?”

  “The soldiers are cruel men—they will not let us live—”

  “Neither will I,” said Durell grimly.

  Turning, he started for the village gate. The Arab made a guttural sound and jumped at him with the knife. Durell twisted, broke the stabbing blow with his left forearm, drove a fist under the thin man’s ear. Something struck him heavily on the back of the head, and he staggered, turning. The fat man had a stone in his hand and began beating at him with it. Durell kneed him, heard him squeal like a stuck pig, felt the woman claw at him with dirty fingernails. The Arab circled, knife glittering. The struggle was silent. No one in the village seemed to hear a thing. Reddish sunlight flooded through the tamarisk trees. Dust boiled up under their scuffling feet. Durell did not want to use his gun. It would mean too many questions from the local authorities, delays, news stories, impossible complications. His opponents sensed his reluctance. They rushed him together, the two men and the woman, and forced him back into the shadow under the village wall. They all had knives ready now. He felt chagrined. How many good men had he known, who met death in ugly, dirty ways like this? The files of K Section recorded the end for too many, in dark alleys and far-off corners remote from everything they had known. Something warm ran down his cheek. He was bleeding from the stone the fat man had used. He drew a deep breath—and suddenly jumped for the thin Arab.

  The man gave a stifled screech, tried to squirm aside, his blade flashing. Durell hit him in the throat, didn’t wait to see him go down, and whirled for the fat man. The other’s blade point hissed before his eyes. Durell drove hard into the bulging belly, heard the air go out of the man with a grunt, and ducked as the woman leaped for him. Stones slid out from under his feet. His shoulder hit the mud wall near the gate and he thought he heard the insane cackling of a rooster in his ear. His head exploded with pain and he rocked down to his knees, smothered under a smelly, oily body, bulbous but muscular. He tried to slide away, but the weight pinned him down. Darkness swooped over him. He heard a scream, a yammering, the explosive slam of a gun. It wasn’t his own. He couldn’t reach the .38 in his belt now. There was a wriggling heap of bodies all over him. He cursed, heaved upward, and hurled the weight away from him. Then there was a bright flash of light and it all ended, fading away in quick waves of silent motion. . . .

  “Durell?” someone said.

  And: “Can you hear me, sir?”

  He looked up into an anxious young face, a dark moustache, gleaming teeth that showed in a sudden smile. He sat up. He was still in the dust at the foot of the village wall. He felt for his gun. He still had it. He drew it, not caring what happened now. He had been too cautious before. He was lucky to be alive. It could have killed him.

  His vision cleared.

  “Hello, Hanookh,” he said.

  “Are you all right, sir?” asked the Iranian.

  “I think so.”

  “There’s a nasty gash on your arm. And someone used your head as a com grinder. Otherwise, no damage.”

  “Thank you,” Durell said. “Where did you come from?”

  “Over the wall. The rascals are gone. I had hoped you might come this way, across the Dasht-i-Kavir. My guess was right. But in another moment or two—”

  Durell nodded. “Where is Ike Sepah and Beele?”

  The young man’s face grew dark and sorrowed.

  “They are dead, sir.”

  Durell stared into Hanookh‘s dark, liquid eyes. He saw the truth in them. He sat still for a moment, then climbed laboriously to his feet.

  “Let's get out of here.”

  Chapter Six

  THE sun made blinding patterns of white light and inky shade under the mud walls of the village. Hanookh knelt beside him and deftly uncapped a tube of antiseptic ointment and daubed the stuff on his injured arm, then snapped open a clean handkerchief and tied it quickly and efficiently over the wound. Suddenly his hands began to shake and Durell finished the job, studying the young Iranian, who bit his lip and muttered apologies.

  “Ike was my best friend,” Hanookh said. “He was fortunate. When Har-Buri’s assassins caught him, his death was quick. But Adam Beele was not so lucky. They wanted something from him, and they took a long time to ask their questions.”

  “How do you know about it?” Durell asked.

  “I watched. I was hiding. They outwitted us, after you left the ruins. One group was driven off—Chinese, they were-—and we remained hidden. I went oil to scout, and while I was gone, they took Ike and Mr. Beele. I could not help them. There were too many of them. Ike fought, and they shot him at once. But Beele was tortured.”

  “What do you suppose they wanted from him?”

  “The map that he gave you, sir."

  “You noticed it, did you?”

  “Yes, sir. They will do anything to get it back, anything to stop you from taking it to Teheran and revealing Har-Buri’s headquarters. Last night I came across the desert, hoping to catch up with you. I stole the truck from Har-Buri’s men, after Beele died.” Hanookh tightened his mouth. “You must give me that map, Durell.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Durell said.

  “Sir, don’t you trust me?”

  “I don’t trust anyone, lately.”

  “I understand that, but I assure you—”

  “Let’s go, Hanookh. We should be on our way.”

  Hanookh’s dark eyes hardened for a moment, then he straightened and looked toward the village gate. Two women in black robes and veils, leading donkeys, came out. The women did not look their way. It was as if they did not exist, or were invisible. Charcoal smoke drifted on the hot air, and the smell of excrement and urine seemed strong enough to support the clay village walls. More women gathered about the well. If anyone in the caravanserai was aware of the Arabs and their truck, or the struggle outside the gate, they gave no sign of it.

  The Renault was gone. So was its fat owner and load of contraband rifles. Hanookh and Durell walked through the narrow alleys to the three-sided inn. No one tried to stop them. There was a dusty Coca-Cola sign hanging askew over the main entrance, and a gasoline pump. The Anny truck was parked there, incongruous among the camels, goats, and donkeys in the courtyard. It looked as out of place as Hanookh, in his military uniform.

  A clot of Kurds squatting around a cookfire looked up with mysterious eyes as Hanookh forged through them to the truck.

  Hanookh halted. “We are in new trouble.”

  Durell saw the problem, too. “Did you leave the engine hood up?”

  “No, certainly not.” The Iranian swore softly in Farsi and jumped into the cab. The Kurds clustered about their fire and went on eating. There came some dead clicks from the motor as Hanookh tried the ignition and starter. Nothing else happened. Durell went around to the front and looked at the engine. Hanookh’s face was dim behind the dusty windshield.

  “Your distributor cap is gone,” Durell said.

  Hanookh jumped out again. His dark face was flushed with anger. He searched the nearby ground, then spoke rapidly to the Kurds in their language. Du
rell saw that all the travelers in the caravanserai were watching. Their eyes were secretive, amused. Most were hostile.

  “They say they know nothing and saw nothing,”

  Hanookh said grimly.

  “Offer them some money.”

  “It is against bureau principles—”

  “How far is it to the main Teheran highway?”

  “If we try to walk, we’ll be easily ambushed.”

  “Exactly. Pay them.”

  The Kurd leader was a tall, bearded man who wore his robes with dignity. He took Hanookh’s money in a great, sandy paw and nodded, speaking to his fellow-tribesmen in measured tones that held a questioning note. At last he shrugged and turned back to Hanookh, who listened angrily.

  “He says the Arab took the distributor cap. When this man questioned him for tampering with government property, the Arab said I had sent him. It’s hopeless. He’s thrown it away in the desert by now, miles from here. And there isn’t another part like it within reach. So we must walk.”

  “Not necessarily.” Durell eyed the tall Kurd. “Ask him for transportation. We’ll pay.”

  “Can you ride a camel or a donkey?”

  “Easier than I can walk.”

  “Yes. And your wound needs tending. You look pale, Mr. Durell.” Hanookh hesitated. “You do not share your information with me, but—well, we are allies, eh?”

  The deal was quickly made. The Kurds would not leave until evening, because of the heat. Hanookh arranged for a room at the caravanserai. It was no use fretting about the Arabs and the Renault, or the riddle of Tanya’s torn robe that Durell had found in the truck.

  The Army vehicle had been stripped of everything detachable, and it was no use, either, trying to recover anything from the silent people in the courtyard. A hot wind began to moan and blow sand through the village, and Durell was glad to go up to the room Hanookh got for them. The first-aid kit from the truck was untouched, and Hanookh made a better bandage for Durell. He felt tired, and frustrated. His eyelids were gritty and his head ached. Hanookh promised to stand guard during the hours they had to wait. There was nothing else to be done. Tanya was long gone. He stretched out on the straw mattress that teemed with a life all its own. He was beyond caring. After a time, he slept.

  He awoke to gloom and a thumping, scuffling noise outside the cell-like room. He was bathed in sticky sweat. Someone yelled, and he rolled instinctively off the narrow pallet to the dirt floor and reached for his gun in his waistband. The old plank door burst inward and a knot of struggling, cursing men tumbled in. There were three of them, against a desperate Hanookh. A knife flashed in the semi-darkness. Glass crunched. He rolled aside and something thudded into the cot where he had slept. A man’s trousered legs loomed above him and he kicked upward and the man screeched and grabbed himself and staggered away. Hanookh yelled and Durell got to his feet in a corner, gun in hand. Hanookh stumbled his way. Durell shoved the slim lad aside and smashed his gun into a snaggle-toothed, bearded face. Blood spattered. He felt someone grab for his gun and he squeezed the trigger.

  The report was enormous. It roared, echoed, and bounced back and forth in the little room.

  The three men stumbled away. Hanookh was on hands and knees, shaking his head. His nose was bleeding and his glossy moustache was saturated with it. His eyes were apologetic.

  “I am sorry. They came so fast—”

  “Who were they?”

  “Har-Buri’s assassins. The first strike.”

  “They struck out, then.”

  “Ah, they will try again. They will not let us leave this place.”

  “Where are the Kurds?”

  “Gone, without us. Probably they were paid more. I told you that money was useless.”

  Durell went to the door and looked down the arched corridor to the entrance of the caravanserai. It was strangely empty. Where the courtyard had teemed with life, it now stretched desolately in the evening dusk. He yelled for the proprietor, but no one answered. The attackers had vanished, and he wondered if there were more of them about. Plainly, Har-Buri’s power stretched like the tentacles of an octopus, groping everywhere for him. He wiped sweat and dirt from his face and suddenly longed for a cool, fresh shower.

  “We can’t stay here as sitting ducks,” he said to Hanookh, “so we walk, after all. All the way to Teheran, if we must.”

  He crossed the courtyard to the abandoned Army truck. It now looked as if locusts had devoured it. The tires were gone, the canvas top of the stake body had vanished, the cab seats, sun visor, canvas water-bottles, wooden racks, instrument panel and wiring—all was stripped away. He kicked at the ashes where the Kurds had camped. A few coals still glowed. He looked at the sky. The moon was rising. A dog howled in one of the alleys nearby.

  “Food and water,” he said to Hanookh.

  “We can try the kitchen here.”

  They found some cold rice, a few pieces of lamb, a hand-pump that yielded brackish water when Hanookh tried it. Durell took a clay pot and made a sling and carrying band for it. The place was silent and empty. Hanookh was pale. He washed the blood from his nose and moustache.

  “We are trapped here, Durell, sir.”

  “People come and go all the time, don’t they?”

  “Just traders, caravan folks.”

  “Well, let’s look.”

  The alleys were quiet. The clay houses leaned toward each other, darkening the way. He walked to the village gate and saw no one. A last light glimmered over the desert in the west. The hills were rugged, barren. A faint track made by caravans, an occasional truck, and donkey and camel droppings showed him the way home. The air was turning cold again. He shivered and turned to Hanookh.

  “I wonder where the three who jumped us went.”

  “The villagers will hide them. Har-Buri has many sympathizers. The others obey him, out of fear.”

  “But the assassins got here, didn’t they?”

  “I don’t know what you mean—”

  “They were sent in to stop us. They haven‘t left. So they must have the means to leave, right?”

  Hanookh’s eyes glistened. “True. A car or a jeep—”

  “Let’s look. I prefer to be the hunter.”

  Durell led the way back to the caravanserai. It was still deserted. There was an oil lamp in the vaulted corridor, and he took it down and lit it with one of his remaining matches, and searched the floor for blood. He knew he had hit one of the men with his gunshot. He found a few spatters almost underfoot, and followed them to the rear of the inn, skirting the kitchen. They came to a blank door. There was a bloody handprint on it, above the iron latch. He listened, but heard no sound from beyond. His gun was ready when he shoved quickly at the panel and jumped through. A flight of dark, earthen steps yawned before him. He went down fast, with Hanookh at his heels, the lamp in one hand, extended far out from his body.

  A woman screamed, and he recognized the owner’s frightened voice. They were in a storage cellar, and the innlceeper and his wife were the only people in sight.

  “The hashishim,” Hanookh said angrily. “Where are they?”

  The man was a Hindu. He shook with his fear. “Sahib, I am poor but honest, and have only my wife and no children, alone in the world, struggling to exist—“

  “Shut up.”

  The cellar was empty. Another door led them up an adjacent flight of dirt steps. They found themselves in the next village house. A single, circular room, with a smoke-hole in the antiquated beehive roof, was deserted. Durell spotted more blood on the floor.

  “Hanookh, I smell gasoline.”

  “I don’t, sir."

  “Come along.”

  They found the jeep behind the house, under a shed thatched with palm fronds. A dog barked furiously at them, and Hanookh chased it away. There was no further trace of their attackers. Perhaps the one he’d shot was in a bad way, Durell thought, and the others had taken him somewhere else in the village for help. He checked the jeep rapidly, foun
d the open gas can that had given away its presence, and set to work to jump the ignition wires. In a few moments, the engine roared into life.

  Hanookh grinned broadly. “All Americans are good auto mechanics,” he said.

  “It’s our way of life,” Durell told him.

  The jeep was old and rusty, and its second gear didn’t work, but it took them through the village gate with a roar, In minutes, the oasis was out of sight behind the barren, rolling hills. The moonlight was bright. The track was easy to follow, leading north and west toward the desert’s edge and the highway to Teheran.

  Durell drove, fighting the balky gearshift. He did not dare use the headlights, and trusted to the moon to guide his way. The nature of the land began to change after the first few miles. Scrubby brush appeared, and the hills lifted higher on either hand. Hanookh kept looking backward, but there was no pursuit.

  “They will wait up ahead,” the Iranian said.

  “How can they know we’ve escaped from the village?”

  “They will know,” Hanookh promised grimly.

  “When you talked to the villagers and the caravan people—did anyone mention Tanya?”

  ”No.”

  “No one saw her?”

  “No one admitted it. Do you think they have her again?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Durell decided.

  “It is a marvel,” Hanookh said, “that a human being has at last been on the moon.”

  “A miracle,” said Durell. “Is this Har-Buri as dangerous a politician as everyone seems to think?”

  “More so. He is our number-one priority at intelligence headquarters, according to my superior, Colonel Saajadi. He uses everyone as his tool. He preys upon the greed of the poor and the fears of the rich. We have hunted him for a long time. And only you know where he can be found.”

  Durell said nothing.

  “Give me the map, please,” said Hanookh.

  “I destroyed it.”

  “Then tell me where he can be found.”