Assignment - Quayle Question

by Edward S. Aarons

“You have not. You have lied. You have tried to be devious. Not a good policy toward the Messenger.”

  “What messenger?”

  “It is a title, not a servant’s status.”

  “I’m not convinced that you are sane.”

  “I do not try to convince you of that. Will you now tell me about Martin Pentecost and his suspicions?”

  “Why not ask him?”

  “It is not possible.”

  “He got away? Really?”

  “In a sense.”

  “But you don’t have him here?”

  “We do. In a sense. Where is Rufus Quayle?”

  “I told you—”

  “Very well.”

  ****************************************

  They took off her blindfold. For the first time in many hours, she saw light again. Dimly at first, as if it came through hundreds of thin, gauzy curtains. One by one, the curtains lifted. She blinked her eyes, trying to clear her vision.

  It was as if she were in a motionless plane, high above a darkening desert. Mountains loomed in the far distance, purple with the shadows of evening. Far below, the flat vista stretched without meaning, empty and desolate, dotted here and there with scrub growth, ravaged by canyons and buttes, by grotesque and beautiful rock formations of reds and grays and glittering quartz.

  She realized she was looking through a wide, panoramic window.

  “You may turn around.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Tomash’ta?”

  It was the first name she had heard spoken among them. She felt herself turned in the chair on which she was seated. They had tied her to the chair, arms and legs, so she could not rise up out of it or move in any way. The chair was turned.

  She saw her inquisitor.

  She felt again the impact of a sense of unreality, of mental denial. Gross, enormous weight, fat, breathing with that faint hint of asthmatic difficulty. A face whose' detailed features escaped her amid a wave of malignancy, of evil, that emanated from the seated figure.

  “You find me repellent, my dear young woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am the Messenger. I signify all the wickedness to which this world has been abandoned.”

  “You’re still talking nonsense.”

  “We shall see. You asked about Martin? I told you, my patience is not limited. Look at Martin. Turn her some more, Tomash’ta.”

  The chair was turned, lifted bodily, set down quietly at a new angle. She saw the room, a simple plastered chamber, with a Spanish archway at one end, another arch becoming visible as she was turned about. There were heavy old beams in the ceiling. Hooks had been hung from them on iron chains.

  Something hung from one of the hooks.

  It was a naked male body, almost unidentifiable from the carcasses of steers she had once seen in a slaughterhouse.

  The man had been mutilated and tortured. With knives and with fire. She began to vomit. The big iron hook had been inserted into the jaw of the head, and the body was suspended that way from the iron hook.

  Slowly, through spasms of retching, she looked into the face of the dead man.

  Looked into the glazed, insane eyes of the dead man.

  It was Martin.

  Part Three

  CA’D’ORIZON

  Chapter Seven

  It was cold and wet in Washington. When they landed at National Airport at two o’clock in the morning, the stars had been out and there was a balmy feel to the pre-dawn air, promising some Indian summer weather. But during the taxi ride from the airport, the wind shifted to the east and freshened, and a faint drizzle began when Durell and Deirdre arrived at his bachelor apartment near Rock Creek Park. It was a place he had stubbornly kept as a home base, even with the deterioration of the neighborhood.

  The K Section plane at the airstrip near White Spring Spa had taken them all quickly out of the mountain area. Durell sent Franklin to be hospitalized with a chipped ankle bone. Marcus and Henley were told to stand by at Annapolis Street, turning in at the dormitory there on the third floor. Durell had given Henley a verbal report for General McFee.

  Marcus was doubtful. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “Not yet. Perhaps later.”

  Henley coughed and poked his glasses up on his aristocratic nose and looked meaningfully at Deirdre. “Let it go, Marcus. Durell is the boss. Ours not to reason why, eh?”

  Marcus grumbled, “I’ve got reports of my own to make out for the DIA.”

  “Then make them,” Durell said briefly. “You’ll hear from me later.”

  “Cajun.” Henley was patient. “You’re supposed to work with us. We’ve got a potential fiasco on our hands. You don’t have private plans of your own, do you?”

  “You’ll hear from me tomorrow,” Durell said. “We all need some rest, right now.”

  Deirdre did not question him when he took the taxi to his own apartment instead of going to No. 20 Annapolis Street. It was three in the morning before the cab pulled up in front of the red-brick building, with its familiar marble trim, near the park. There were several similar buildings on the tree-lined street. The mizzling rain had freshened, and Deirdre shivered in her rough hiking outfit. Durell studied the parked cars at the curb. There were no pedestrians in sight. Mist moved along the tops of the poplar trees in front of the apartments.

  There was some mail, a white envelope, visible in Durell’s mailbox. He looked at the box but did not touch it.

  “What is it?” Deirdre asked.

  “Somebody tipped him off.”

  “Are you talking about Tomash’ta?”

  “Yes. That’s how he knew I was on this job. That’s why he told the little Akuro girl to call my name, at the Spa.”

  “But nobody could know—”

  “We know. And people in DIA.”

  “I don’t like that, Sam.”

  He looked about the deserted apartment-house lobby. The glass front doors showed the street outside to be empty, dimpled by the rain. “Let the mail wait, Dee.”

  “You really think it was someone in K Section who tipped Tomash’ta we were going into the mountains?”

  “I’m betting it was one of Eli Plowman’s people.”

  “Tell me about him, Sam. I don’t know anything about Plowman.”

  “Count yourself lucky for it. There isn’t a dossier on him anywhere. There’s nothing about his ‘sanitation squads’ and nothing about the people he recruited. He had his own private fund for his projects. We don’t even know who worked for him. It’s not the sort of thing you risk publicity on by keeping records. If he enlisted anybody, nobody knew about it; and his hired killers naturally never talked about it.”

  “Still, you worked with him in Sumatra.”

  “In a way. He had his own ax to grind there. It gave me trouble. After I reported him, he was ordered cleaned. But he vanished in Singapore. He knew we were after him. All his funds were cut off. But he’d be able to manage as an independent operator, I think.”

  Deirdre started for the elevator, but he caught her hand before she pushed the button. “We’ll take the stairs.”

  He went up the worn marble treads in silence, keeping Deirdre close behind him. Instinct shrilled warnings to him. The first landing was empty. His apartment was on the third floor. The next landing was clear, too. On the wet street outside, he heard a single car go by, tires swishing in the rain. The motor faded away, speed undiminished. He wondered, not for the first time, if he had been in the business too long. No one knew this address. He was rarely here, and he always took precautions about being trailed here. But he had never known anyone like Eli Plowman before, either. To Plowman, the simplest and final way of dealing with an enemy was by killing. Murder was a way of life with Eli. He remembered the man’s innocuous round face, his drab appearance that had the fine facility of blending into his surroundings. And Plowman’s anonymous squads were drawn from any outfit available here in Washington.

  The corridor to his apa
rtment door was empty. He was careful inserting the key. Nothing happened. He turned the lock, listening for any unusual sound in the tumblers. Nothing. He drew his gun and eased the door open with his fingertips. Light from the hall behind him edged inside, a trapezoid pattern on his Oriental Sarouk rug. There were no explosions. No shots. He felt for the inside switch. There could be explosives anywhere. In the mailbox, the door lock, in the light switch. Someone could be crouching by the fireplace, beside the wingchair that Deirdre had re-covered last year.

  Nothing.

  His tension did not ease. He pulled Deirdre inside with him in the darkness, pressed her back beside the door, felt for the screw slots that held the switchplate in place. The screws were aligned properly, the way he had left them.

  He snapped on the light.

  The telephone rang.

  The sound was as shocking as if someone had thrown a grenade. He felt Deirdre jump, but he did not look at her. The apartment was now softly lighted. He looked at the bookcases packed with his old legal texts from Yale, shelves of history, politics, philosophy, the now-silent stereo built into the paneled wall beside the fireplace. The draperies were tightly drawn. It felt too warm in the living room. He could see from the hall door into his bedroom. All the closet doors were closed. The place reflected his rather austere personal tastes. He had a few good oils by lesser French impressionists, an Amy Bessar Connecticut scene framed in worm-holed gray oak, some Ashe prints.

  The telephone kept ringing.

  Deirdre lifted smooth brows. “Only McFee and I know your number, Sam.”

  “Hopefully,” he said.

  “It has to be McFee, Sam.”

  “Let him wait.”

  “But you can’t just ignore the boss, darling.”

  The telephone rang two more times, then was silent.

  Durell said, “McFee told me to keep you safe. I intend to do that, Dee. If there’s a leak somewhere, I have to find it, and fast. Don’t move away from the wall yet.”

  He moved on through the apartment. His instincts still screamed of hidden danger. There was nothing in the rooms to give away the business he was in, except for the legal texts in the bookcases. Nothing had been searched. You secured a place by establishing patterns, large and small. As far as he could see, nothing had been disturbed —the bath cabinets with his shaving gear, his clothes in the closets, the positioning of certain pieces of furniture, the arrangement of kitchen things. Everything conformed to the patterns in which he had left them. He took his time about it, while Deirdre watched with calm eyes from near the entrance door. None of his apprehension about her safety evaporated, even when he was through. “Everything seems all right,” he said quietly.

  He thought of voice-activated explosives, of trip-bombs, of acid in the showerhead, poison smeared inside the coffee pot or impregnated in his Louisiana brand of coffee, or other bombs triggered by an open refrigerator door or by an unwary tread on the carpet beside the bed. He shook his head. The place looked clean. Maybe he was overreacting. But with a man like Eli Plowman, who made murder his business, you were wise to be too careful. He said, “Let’s get some rest now.”

  “Thank goodness. We can use some coffee.”

  He looked at her. “Later, Dee.”

  “Oh. But I need a shower.”

  “That’s checked out. Go ahead.”

  While her shower was running, he checked everything again. He picked up the telephone by its base and looked at the pattern of screw slots in the bottom, put it down again the way it had been positioned on his desk.

  Nothing.

  He didn’t like it.

  Then Deirdre came out of the bath and memories of her body and her generosity in lovemaking moved in him. She was almost as tall as he, with long lovely legs and swelling hips and a narrow waist. She moved in nakedness toward the bed and turned, smiling slightly, lifting her arms to let down her long, shining, copper-black hair.

  “Come here, Sam.”

  “I thought you were exhausted.”

  “Not for you, Sam.”

  He turned out the bedroom lights. Outside, beyond the drawn draperies, the rain fell with a small, comforting sound.

  The telephone rang again shortly after dawn. Durell awoke immediately, aware of Deirdre warmly beside him. He turned to look at her serene brow, the spread of lustrous hair on the pillow; listened to the even sound of her breathing. The phone rang insistently. She sighed and turned toward him and her hand on his chest gentled him down. With her eyes closed, she said, “Let McFee wait. It’s been a long time, wonderful Sam.”

  The telephone kept ringing.

  Her mouth smiled; her long lashes were tiny fans against her cheek. She whispered, “Last night I felt as if, for the first time, I’m a chain around your neck. I don’t want you to worry about me like this, darling.”

  “You could have been killed in the mountains last night, Dee.”

  She moved against him. “But I’m very much alive, yes?”

  “Yes, Dee.”

  “I’m glad I’m here with you. We’re apart so often. It’s not easy doing clerical work for McFee while you’re off in some jungle or desert on the other side of the world. I’m glad you want me close to you on this job. Close, like this.” She touched him, smiling. “Don’t go away, Sam.”

  “I won’t.” He grinned.

  “You know what I mean. Is Plowman such a horror?” “Worse.”

  The phone had stopped ringing.

  “I never knew you to be so worried about anyone before, except that Madame Hung. But she’s dead long ago, isn’t she?”

  He thought about it. “Yes.”

  “But Plowman—

  “He’s amoral, has no respect for life. In a sense, he’s a dead man, himself. He’s lived with killing for too long, it’s meaningless for him. He knows his life is up for grabs, since I made bim run in Sumatra. But I’m surprised he’s here in the States, though. He has plenty of escape-holes in Southeast Asia, where he usually operated. He’s also a member of some far-out sect that claims affiliation to Buddhism, but it’s an unlikely relation to that gentle religion.” He felt her warm, firm breasts against his chest. “Let’s not talk about it now.”

  She laughed softly. “I hoped you’d say that.”

  ★ ★ ★

  At noon he slid out of bed and showered, letting her sleep a few moments more. But she was alert to everything about her, and when he returned to the bedroom, toweling, she was awake, her head propped on one hand, observing him curiously.

  “Are we going somewhere? I haven’t any clothes* really, darling.”

  “You didn’t tell me about the sand,” he said quietly.

  “What sand?”

  He moved the window curtain a fraction of an inch and looked down at the street below. It had stopped raining. The street looked normal. A taxi went by. Some boys played along the line of parked cars across the street. A woman with a shopping bag of groceries went into the building opposite.

  “What sand, Sam?” Deirdre repeated.

  He picked up her short boots, examined the soles, looked at his own footgear, checked the cuffs on the trousers he had worn last night in the Alleghenies.

  “There’s sand on the tiled floor in one corner of the bathroom. I couldn’t see it last night, under artificial light. White sand, very fine, very powdery.”

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “It could be a message.”

  She did not understand. He said, “It’s plain that the real objective of this terrorist outfit, of which Tomash’ta is only a small cog, is your Uncle Rufus’s Q.P.I. Eli Plowman is Tomash’ta’s boss, but even Eli isn’t at the head of this corporate gangsterism, which seems to aim at a world-wide network of media outlets. These outlets could change public opinion any way the Shumata zaibatsu. wants. The real boss of Shumata, now that the dissident Yoshi Akuro was eliminated last night, is still an unknown quantity.”

  He watched her get out of bed and dress in her rough hiking clot
hes. She was beautiful. He thought she had never been more desirable, more precious to him. He ached for her. He watched the way her dark hair fell forward as she bent to lace up her boots.

  “Your Uncle Rufus’s Q.P.I. is the last link they need for this world-wide network, Dee. The biggest, the best, maybe the most important. Tell me about him, Dee.” “Rufus Quayle? I don’t know anything, really. My relationship with him is practically academic.”

  “But you’ve met him.”

  “Only once, when I was a child.”

  “Where?”

  “At that fantastic, crazy house of his, the Ca’d’Orizon, on the Jersey shore.” She broke off suddenly and stared at him. “Is that New Jersey sand?”

  “It could be.”

  “But—”

  “I’m supposed to find it, I think. To take me to New Jersey, to your uncle, Rufus Quayle.”

  “But Rufus wouldn’t—he doesn’t know you or anything about you.”

  “Eli Plowman knows me. Maybe too well. That sand shows he was here. In this apartment. Maybe just before we got here.”

  Deirdre hugged herself. “But you found nothing, Sam.” “Only the sand. As if from his shoes.”

  “But you said he was so professional.”

  “Exactly. The sand here is no accident. He left it for me. To get me there.” He paused. “So tell me what you can remember about that house on the Jersey shore, the Ca’d’Orizon.”

  It wasn’t much, he thought later. She had been only twelve years old—she wasn’t sure—and she did not recall how the invitation had arrived to her parents. It was a holiday, maybe Thanksgiving; she remembered it was wintery. Her parents were dead now, there was no point trying to recall the occasion.

  “Just your impressions, Dee,” he urged.

  “Bigness. Very ornate. We came there by boat. He was younger then. Of course, he seemed like an old man to me. I remember his hair was dark, just slightly red, like mine. He was very tall. Big. He—I recall feeling afraid of him.”

  “Why?”

  “His voice. It was just beginning to get that rough sound—you know, the way he sounds on the radio when he delivers his monthly editorials.”

  “Nobody has heard his voice for over three months.”