Assignment Moon Girl

by Edward S. Aarons

  “It won’t hurt to cry,” he said.

  She shivered suddenly. “Oh, I feel so cold.”

  He felt it, too. He had been aware of the cold air current that swept his neck and down his back. Tanya lifted her head from his knee as he suddenly straightened on their precarious perch. He looked down into the black pit. He could not see the floor, but he thought he could see two glowing green emeralds down there, very faint, luminescent, balefully staring up at them. It was the tiger’s eyes. He told Tanya to sit still, then crouched on the narrow step and wet his fingers and moved them in the darkness. Yes, there was a cold current of night air coming in. Hope lifted in him again. He took the iron bar and shoved it against the planked cap of the cistern. Nothing happened, for a moment. He used his strength until his body screamed in protest and he almost lost his balance. He paused, rested.

  “What is it?” Tanya said, below him.

  “I think we can get out.”

  He tried again. There came a faint creak and a pop as a nail gave way in the dry wood. Cold air suddenly struck his begrimed face. Dust made him cough, then he made a last effort. This time Tanya reached past his shoulders to help with the prize against the planking. There came a long screech and a breaking sound and one of the planks came loose and tumbled down into the darkness where the cat stood, watching them.

  At once, he reached out, gained a grip on the edge of the opening, and pulled himself forward and up. His legs swung free over the black emptiness below. A rush of icy air washed over him. His body swung, he gathered himself up, and pulled himself up and over and out of the pit, rolling over twice before he could check himself.

  He lay for another moment after that, staring up at the night sky. A crescent moon sailed over him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IT TOOK a few moments to regain his strength. He did not move. He watched the sky turn over him When he turned his head, he saw a grayish pallor on the horizon. It was almost dawn. They had worked all night to clear the ancient steps and get out of the cistern.

  A cold wind blew dust over him and mourned among the leaning columns of ancient ruins all about. He turned back to the cistern cap and peered through the hole, lying on his stomach.

  “Tanya?” he called softly.

  “I am here. But I cannot do as you did. I am not strong enough.” Her voice came as if from an infinite depth, although she was only a few feet from him. It might be best if you leave me. I will wait.”

  “No. Reach out your arm as far as you can.”

  Her pale hand appeared in the dark hole. He stretched, could not reach her fingers, stretched again, and locked his hand about her wrist.

  “When I pull,” he whispered, “let go of the step and swing out.”

  “I’ll fall!” she gasped.

  “Use your other hand for a grip on the edge of the wood. Try to make one movement of it. Understand?”

  “Let me stay here.”

  “You can‘t give up now. Here we go.”

  He pulled hard at her wrist before her fears took complete command of her. She gave a small cry, and her weight suddenly wrenched at his arms and pulled him partly into the pit again. Then her free hand flailed up and he caught it and hauled back hard. Her body scraped painfully against the splintery edges of the broken planks. Then her head and shoulders appeared. He pulled back until he was on his knees and she came up and out of the pit and fell on the sand before him, sobbing.

  They were free.

  But from below came a sudden roar of loud, frustrated fury as the tiger realized they had escaped.

  The sound bellowed up in waves that seemed to reverberate against the paling sky. Durell cursed and helped the girl to her feet. She leaned heavily against him, shuddering in the cold wind that swept the mountainside.

  They were on a natural terrace above the little valley in the peak’s shoulder that he had explored on his first venture here. The terrace formed an area that jutted out above the desert floor like the prow of an enormous ship. It had been smoothed over long ago, and some of the great slabs of flooring stone were still visible through the drifting sand that had tumbled down from the summit above. Here and there, the ruins of temple colonnades leaned against the night sky. The columns were massive, but eroded, their pediments tumbled in great chunks of carved stone that were strewn all about. An alley of columnar bases led Durell to the left, and he drew the girl that way. About fifty yards from where they had climbed from the cave, they came to the circular hole of the first pit in which they had been imprisoned. The girl shuddered and drew back.

  “Where are we?” she whispered.

  “Iskander’s Garden. A palace and fortress built by Alexander, according to legend. But it looks more like the work of the ancient Persians.”

  “Why has no one discovered it before?”

  “Most of the Dasht-i-Kavir has never been surveyed. I suppose in time, and soon enough, they’ll map it aerially and discover this spot. But they haven’t yet. It makes an ideal rebel headquarters.”

  “But I see no one.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t, for the time being.”

  He had kept the iron bar used as a prize for the cistern cap, and he weighed it in his hands tentatively. It was a poor weapon against what he expected to meet. The frustrated roars of the tiger in the caves below sounded muted for a moment, then came up louder than before. The beast had followed them to the first pit, and now paced and ran in circles far below them.

  There was a blush of true dawn in the east. The wind blew cold, mourning about the ruined temples where they stood. In the pale light, Durell saw a footpath that Mahmoud must have beaten on his regular rounds to feed and water the tiger and themselves. The trail dipped out of sight behind the ruin of a low wall. In the dawning light, he surveyed the soaring cliff that rose from the widest base of the triangular terrace on which they stood. Tanya took his hand. Her fingers felt cold.

  “How can we climb down from here?”

  “We can’t. Not yet, anyway.”

  He led her along the path that twisted away from the pit. The tiger’s roars followed, growing dimmer. The beast sounded lonely. Where the trail went around the end of the wall, Durell halted.

  An ancient gateway had been cut into the rock face of the cliff, adorned with winged bulls whose outlines had been softened by wind erosion through the ages. It could have been a tomb, once, when there was a way up to this plateau. Perhaps it had been through the valley and gate into the caves he had entered before. But it did not seem to be enough, if this mountain had been a. fortress supporting thousands of men-at-arms, priests, captains, and nobles.

  He was about to step from behind the sheltering wall when he heard dragging footsteps come up the path from the cliff gate. He warned Tanya back with a wave of his hand. It was only one man. There came a mumbling of Farsi, a protest against the chilly dawn. A moment later, a man came into sight around the ruins, heading for the pit.

  “Mahmoud!” Durell called softly.

  The man paused, startled. He did not see Durell and the girl, at first. His head turned this way and that. He wore a whitish shirt and old trousers and a pair of fine military boots. Durell liked the boots. He was still barefooted, and except for the boots, he had the complete costume he needed. Mahmoud would have to provide the rest, he decided.

  “Mahmoud!” Durell called again.

  And then he hit him.

  The man went over backward and then tried to scramble away like a wriggling snake. Durell jumped for him, saw the open mouth and snaggle-toothed grimace, spitting and ready to screech an alarm. He took the iron bar and jammed it across Mahmoud’s throat and pressed hard on it, not with all his weight, because he wanted Mahmoud to talk; but the pressure was enough to make Mahmoud leap in convulsion. For a moment, he almost escaped. Then Durell returned his weight to the bar and flattened on top of the writhing body. The man’s breath wheezed and rasped, and he

  began to retch. Durell let up a bit.

  “Do you want
to die?” he whispered.

  The man’s eyes bulged, pleading.

  “Then be silent,” Durell said. '

  He eased up a bit more. Mahmoud sucked in a great lungful of air. He smelled of sweat, rancid fat, and onions. He had a thin, scarred face with flaring nostrils.

  “How did you—escape again?” the man gasped.

  Durell’s command of the language was just good enough to make himself understood. “Allah helps those who fight for justice. Where are the soldiers?”

  “Soldiers?”

  “There are troops and arms and trucks here, ready for the revolution.”

  Mahmoud sighed. “Yes.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Inside the mountain.”

  “Through that gate?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Har-Buri?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Are the Chinese here? Ta-Po and his woman?”

  “I do not know.”

  “And the Russian professor?”

  “I do not—”

  Durell put the bar across Mahmoud’s throat again. The dawn light was brighter now, touched at the eastern horizon with flaming color. In the sky, a vulture began to float in circles high above the mountaintop.

  “I hate to send you to Paradise in such ignorance,” Durell said quietly. “You have only one more chance to speak the truth.”

  He pressed down again on the man’s throat. Mahmoud made only one more effort to resist. His body flung this way and that, his arms flapping in the cold morning air. His legs spasmed. Tanya made a murmuring sound, but Durell did not relent. When Mahmoud’s eyes bulged and his tongue protruded, he let up briefly. Mahmoud seemed unable to breathe, clawing at his throat. Durell drew back a bit and waited.

  “General—Har-Buri—will execute me,” the man gasped.

  “So he’s a general now?”

  “He leads the National Freedom Army—"

  “He is here?"

  “Yes.”

  “That's better. And the others?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Tell me the way.”

  Mahmoud made a spitting sound. He could recover quickly. “They will slice you into little pieces and feed you to the vultures. Both of you. There is no way, for you.”

  “Yes, there is. Take off your boots, Mahmoud. I need them. Then get up.”

  Mahmoud did as he was told, and Durell squeezed his bare feet into the military boots with some misgivings. When Mahmoud struggled to his feet, Durell shoved him toward the gateway. “Lead on. If we’re stopped or challenged, I am Colonel Awazi, sent by General Har-Buri to bring the girl to him.”

  Mahmoud’s face wrinkled with terror. “But that will not be accepted! They will know it is a trick!”

  “That’s up to you. If you’re not convincing, we’re all dead. You had better try very hard, Mahmoud.”

  Durell patted the man’s filthy clothing for weapons, and found a long-bladed knife. The sun was up now, red and baleful on the desert horizon. The wind died. Long morning shadows were cast by the columns that stood on the plateau. The vulture in the sky was joined by several others.

  The gateway in the cliff proved bigger than Durell had thought, as they approached. New iron doors had been fitted into the massive masonry. A single exit door stood open. Durell gave Mahmoud a cautionary warning as they drew near, and the man licked his lips and nodded his scabby head.

  They stepped into a great, vaulted chamber, illuminated by crude strings of electric lights dangling from improvised wiring in the stone ceiling. Whatever archeological treasures may have once been here had long been removed. The place was a barracks, filled with soldiers.

  Mahmoud halted, and Durell and Tanya flanked him. Durell kept the point of the knife hidden, pricking Mahmoud’s left kidney. Most of the soldiers were asleep on tiers of bunks built against the rock walls. They wore uniforms, and against the wall were racks of rifles, anti-tank rocket launchers, machine guns, and mortars. A man with big sergeant’s stripes on his short shirtsleeves yawned sleepily at a desk at the far end of the big room.

  “Keep going,” Durell murmured in Farsi.

  “I—I am afraid.”

  “Walk!”

  They crossed the room under the curious gaze of those soldiers who were awake in their bunks. The sergeant scrubbed his eyes, rubbed flattened hands over his mouth, and gave Durell’s colonel’s pips a sloppy salute. His interest was centered on Tanya.

  “Good morning, Colonel. . . . Mahmoud, you idiot, what are you doing with the woman?”

  “G-general Har-Buri sent for her, Sergeant.”

  Durell said easily: “I am Colonel Awazi, Sergeant, of the Egyptian Army, in liaison with the general.”

  “The girl is dangerous. She should have a guard.”

  Durell hoped he had explained his accent. He smiled. “Where could she go? Off the cliff?”

  The sergeant laughed. He had bad teeth. “I hear she was a prisoner, with an American spy. Both of them are spies.”

  “Times have changed, Sergeant,” Durell said easily. “It makes things difficult in our part of the world. Not so easy to play one off against the other, eh? But the general is impatient to see us. There must be no delay.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen you before, Colonel.”

  The sergeant picked a pistol off his desk and handled it with apparent carelessness. “What is the matter with Mahmoud? Granted, he is nothing but an idiot dog we found here, but he shakes like a frightened cur.”

  For a moment, Durell thought that Mahmoud would blow everything. He nudged the point of his hidden knife against the man’s kidneys. Mahmoud jumped slightly.

  “It is nothing, sir," Mahmoud said hastily. “I had a bad night. The general is in an evil mood, and he frightens me."

  “But we move out tonight. An evil humor is not a good sign.”

  “He is anxious to talk to this girl, Sergeant.”

  “Very well,” the soldier said abruptly. “Go ahead.”

  Mahmoud hurried forward out of the barracks room, with Durell and Tanya following close behind. The sergeant yawned and settled back in his chair. But it was plain that Mahmoud had used the last of his resources to get by the sergeant. Cowardice claimed his last strength. Beyond the barracks room was a long, tunneled corridor that sloped into the heart of the mountain. Once it had been part of ancient fortifications, or tombs; but modern machinery had secretly drilled and widened the honeycombed mountain, and the walls were now reinforced with concrete, and lit by more strings of electric bulbs that drew their power source from a generator deep in the bowels of the rock. Ten steps into the tunnel, and Mahmoud clutched at his chest and gagged and leaned against the wall. His color was gray, and his breathing ragged.

  “I cannot go—go on.”

  “You must,” Durell said adamantly.

  “You can kill me here. Cut my throat. Thrust into my heart. No matter. I cannot go on.”

  “You were brave enough when you guarded the pit.”

  “I did only what I was told,” Mahmoud gasped.

  “All right. How do we get to the general?”

  “Down this tunnel. Up the steps. His private apartment. Headquarters. Many maps. Many officers there.”

  A small door stood partly open down the shaft. Durell shoved Mahmoud ahead and opened the door to reveal a treasure-trove. It was an arms locker. Neatly stacked on shelves and in crates were grenades, machine pistols, a few heavy machine guns. He pushed Mahmoud inside, took rope from the crates, and swiftly bound and gagged the terrified man. Then he chose two grenades and a. machine pistol and offered another gun to Tanya. She shook her head.

  “No, I will kill no one.”

  “They will tear us to pieces, if we’re caught

  “To escape quietly is acceptable. To shoot and kill and bomb is not for me.”

  She had changed back to her cool, detached self. Durell swore softly. Her long, pale hair fell around her face. In her ragged shorts, she showed lo
vely legs, a fine figure. She was a walking invitation to any irresponsible officer they met.

  He did not like to abandon Mahmoud, but they might be better off without him now. He shoved the two grenades inside his shirt and closed and bolted the arms-locker door. The last he saw of Mahmoud was the man’s gleaming, ratty eyes. He wondered if it was triumph and malicious humor that shone there. He couldn’t be sure. But in a few moments, it wouldn’t matter. '

  “Let’s go,” he told Tanya.

  “But where are we going?”

  “First, to find your father.”

  “You still insist he is in this place?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “A prisoner, like ourselves?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me one of your grenades, then.”

  They moved on down the tunnel toward the stairs Mahmoud had described. Daylight shone ahead. Two soldiers clattered down the iron steps, which rose in a spiral up through the mountain rock. They saluted Durell’s colonel insignia and stared at Tanya with open curiosity. One looked as if he were about to challenge them, but the other tugged at his arm and they trotted off toward the barracks room.

  “Rank hath its privileges,” Durell murmured. “Even if it’s stolen.”

  The daylight came from an irregular gash in the rock wall, opening onto a cunningly concealed viewpoint like a balcony built into the mountainside. Heat and light struck at them from the morning sun that blazed over the desert, spread below them like the panorama of a map. Far down the slope, under camouflage nets, was a transport park filled with trucks, jeeps, half-tracks, even three medium tanks. Ramsur Sepah, in his role as General Har-Buri, had planned well. With his troops disguised as regular Iranian Army units, he would be in command of the capital's strongpoints before an alarm was raised. There were even some 88’s visible on wheeled mounts down there. Durell lifted his head as he heard the thudding chop of a helicopter. The machine flew high, a glint of metal and bubble canopy, crossing the brazen sky. It did not hover or come down. He watched it until it vanished on the other side of the mountain, and then he touched Tanya’s arm.

  She did not move. “How can you fight an army, all by yourself?”