Assignment- Death Ship

by Will B Aarons

  A familiar voice came from behind Durell. “Yes? Well, that does make it convenient now, doesn’t it.”

  It was Ronald Durso.

  He stood in the shadows at the rear of the room. Beside him was the railing of a stairway that led through the warehouse floor to the river. He held a pistol on them.

  “You!” Plettner cried. “You must have taken the bacteria. . . ."

  Now Durell saw the simplicity of his own error: He’d assumed the culprit would be in hiding, but Durso had flaunted his presence openly. “You weren’t working with Plettner at all. And you didn’t kill Biner to protect Plettner from me, but because you wanted to get to him first for your own purposes. ”

  “Very good,” Durso said, smirking, “but a little late, Mr. Durell.” He waved the gun toward the stairs. “Now, if you will both accompany me?”

  “Look out, Durellji!”

  Durell hurled himself aside, hoping he was faster than Durso’s aim. As he hit the floor, he heard Gupta and Durso exchange shots. Rolling, he came up with his .38 and fired from a crouch. Durso staggered, cursed, tried to level the barrel of his revolver on Durell.

  Durell’s second shot sent a round through the man’s heart.

  Durell rose from his crouch and holstered his gun with a hand that felt unsteady. His heart still pounded as he frowned down at Durso’s crumpled body. Only dimly was he aware that people were screaming and crying. The lepers were fleeing into the main shelter, raising havoc.

  He came back as Gupta touched his arm. “Thanks,” Durell told him.

  “We’d better leave here,” Gupta said.

  “Yes. Wait.” Durell turned to Dr. Plettner. The man stared at him wide-eyed; he didn’t seem to have moved. Durell’s thoughts went to Muncie: He doubted the U.S. would ever get her back from the Russians. It seemed that the only safe course would be for the U.S. to employ Dr. Plettner to manufacture the germs and their vaccine just in case the Russians proceeded with X. coli research on what information they could force from Muncie. She might know more than she thought she did. At least this way, Durell thought, the U.S. would have the edge of a head start. “I’m sorry,” he told Dr. Plettner, “you’ll have to return to the United States with me.”

  “But . . . isn’t it over now?” Plettner asked.

  Another voice came from the direction of the stairs. “It’s hardly over yet,” it said.

  Again, Durell realized with alarm, it was a voice he recognized. . . .

  Chapter 22

  Bernhard Caske peered through the stair railings. He was not alone, and one of those with him was Luis Alegra. Alegra carried an Uzi submachine gun and looked eager to use it.

  “My men will relieve you of your weapons,” Caske announced. “Quickly, please.”

  Durell and Gupta had no choice. They surrendered their weapons and were ordered down the stairs, along with Dr. Plettner.

  “You were behind everything,” Durell said.

  “Too bad for you,” Caske said, smiling through his beard with a sinister Jeer. “I thought you had me when you came to me in Geneva. You can imagine my relief when you only wanted my help.” He chuckled and added smugly, “You should have struck a bargain with me then, as I suggested. It would have saved you lots of trouble. Into the boat, please ”

  A power launch was moored at the bottom of the stairs.

  Water lapped and flashed among pilings. The sounds of bedlam still came from the confusion above.

  “Where are you taking us?” Plettner demanded.

  “To a nice, quiet place I’ve prepared for you downriver, Herr Doctor. We’ve had you under surveillance until it was ready. When Mr. Durell arrived, we, of course, had no alternative but to act immediately, so you may find a few things not yet in place. The setting is sure to be conducive to your work—I do hope we can be friends again.” The boat had started down the river.

  “I’ll never work for you,” Plettner replied.

  Caske’s laugh said everything about him. It was condescending . . . evil . . . insane. “We shall see about that,” he told Plettner. “After all, you owe me for ruining my company and making a fool of me.”

  “You made a fool of yourself, with your overstated claims. If you’d just given me some breathing space ...” Plettner said remorsefully.

  “Shut up your driveling!” Caske barked. “You had a chance to do things your way. Now you will do them mine.”

  Durell broke in. “Which means that he’s to supply you with the means to do whatever you please with the rest of the world.”

  “Exactly, my friend.” Caske raised his cunning eyes to the night sky. “It could all have been accomplished by now without this bother, if only Dr. Plettner had left a more substantial amount of the culture behind. Unfortunately, we used nearly all of it on that cruise ship demonstration—your government really should have come across on the strength of that, you know. What was left in the laboratory wasn’t enough for our aims, even if it hadn’t been destroyed by your meddling.” He rubbed his hands and smiled wickedly. “Oh, well, it all will be set right very soon. Am I correct?”

  Plettner made no reply.

  “You’re sicker than those wretches we left in the nuns’ shelter,” Durell said.

  “I get what I want!” Caske shouted. “Tie them up!”

  Leaving Calcutta behind, they followed the winding Hooghly south through the immense swamp and jungle that formed the Ganges delta. Night cloaked the countryside. The river buoys and ocean-going vessels were the only signs of civilization.

  Durell couldn’t guess how far they had gone when the boat abruptly slowed and angled for shore. They tied up at stone stairs that rose out of the river. With the boat’s motor dead, the air was alive with the racket of insects and frogs.

  The prisoners were led ashore and into the compound of an abandoned river palace. Its crumbling, vine-entwined stone buildings sported the tiered domes and pierced crenelations of classical Indian architecture.

  The odors of the river mixed with the ripe fragrance of wild fruits and freshly cut grass.

  Bare lightbulbs powered by a generator Durell heard chuffing beyond the walls illuminated the interior, where a sizable number of Indian hirelings camped. Lianas thick as Durell’s arm probed among the lotus-bundle columns and Moghul windows.

  In a larger room that might have served as a reception chamber were more men, clearly Indian laborers involved in restoring the place. Here technicians also were putting the final implements of a modern laboratory in place. Tina was there.

  “I believe you know each other?” Caske intoned.

  Durell saw what might have been love light up Plettner’s sad eyes. “Tina. . .?”

  She turned away from him without showing the least interest and took Caske’s arm. “I see everything went as planned,” she said.

  Durell felt sure she’d been dragged here against her will by Ron Durso. He wasn’t sure what she had up her sleeve, but he didn’t buy the act. Caske seemed to. Plettner certainly did: He looked crushed.

  “We had a misfortune,” Caske told her. “I’m afraid your dear husband made the highest sacrifice. You will never see him again.” He patted her hand.

  She gasped and turned away, burying her face in her hands.

  Plettner spoke to her from a distance. “Tina, dear . . . he wasn’t worth your grief . . . believe me. . . ."

  She faced him with angry, dry eyes. “I won’t miss him,” she said firmly. “And I don’t need you, buster. Mr. Caske will take care of me just fine, right, honey?” She took the bald man’s arm.

  “You may rely on me.” he said smoothly. “Go now and rest for dinner.”

  When she was gone, he turned to Plettner. “Such a charming child, don’t you think?”

  “Send her away, you swine,” Plettner groaned. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing, and you are incapable of feeling. You’ll only use her.”

  Caske looked amused. “I’m afraid I must admit that you’re right, Herr. Doctor. I believe you refu
sed to do my bidding; perhaps I can use Mrs. Durso to change your mind.”

  Plettner looked apprhensive. “W-what do you mean?”

  “Perhaps, if I . . . hurt her.” Caske gave him a crooked smile.

  Plettner drew a short breath. “No . . .”

  “I can see the bruises on that beautiful white skin, can’t you? Perhaps if she were injured . . . sexually? You see, I know of your liaison with the child . . . your fondness— which she, unfortunately, seems not to reciprocate.”

  “Please let her go.” Plettner sounded deeply shaken and his voice trembled with pleading.

  But Caske kept talking. “Yes, something sexual should bring you around, something especially painful and humiliating.”

  “You inhuman beast!” Plettner screamed. “You wouldn’t! Oh, God!” He fell on his knees. “Don’t!”

  Caske studied the man before him as he would an object that vaguely interested him.

  Whatever spirit Plettner had summoned to stand against Caske now all seemed to evaporate. It almost was as if Durell could see the man crumple, like a piece of burning paper. “You will cooperate?”

  “Yes,” Plettner replied. “Whatever you say.”

  Durell had foreseen the end, but had known he was powerless to change it. It had been like watching a dream.

  But the bad dream wasn’t over. Caske signaled his guards, indicating Durell, and said, “Below with him and his Indian stooge!”

  Chapter 23

  They kicked Durell and Gupta, their hands still tied behind them, down the stone stairs. When Gupta couldn’t get to his feet, Alegra kicked him unconscious, laughing and sweating.

  “Leave him be,” Durell demanded.

  For his effort, he got a knee in the groin. As he doubled over, the pain reaching with dull force through his abdomen and hips, the Puerto Rican caught him by the hair and threw him back against the rusty iron door of a cell.

  Durell leaned there, catching his breath and hurting.

  Alegra said, “I’m going to have you for lunch, pal. Now get inside!” He opened the cell door, a solid sheet of metal with a six-by-six-inch window punched in it. Durell staggered in. They dragged Gupta in and clanged the door shut.

  “You’re lucky, Durell,” Alegra taunted. “Mr. Caske says you’re worth more alive than dead—for now.”

  Cramps spread in rigid waves through his gut. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone was reaching out of the shadows for him.

  It was Muncie.

  She fell against him, sobbing.

  “So it wasn’t the Russians after all,” he said as she untied him. When his hands were free, he held her tightly.

  She had a nasty bruise on her cheek. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded, trying to smile. “Mr. Caske tried to persuade me to assist Peter in the lab, but I wouldn’t do it.”

  Durell slid down the wall and sat in the dust. “I suppose he threatened worse, if you don’t?” He heard the sounds of the jungle and the faraway hoot of a ship’s horn.

  “I can’t imagine being tortured,” she said. “It seems so medieval.”

  Durell rubbed his wrists. “Hold out as long as you can,” he said.

  “Easy for you to say.” She sat down beside him and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

  He felt the life trembling in her and thought how fragile she seemed.

  She gave a bitter laugh. “Are we really talking like this? Sam, I’m scared.” She snuggled closer. “Tell me everything will be okay.”

  “I won’t lie to you,” he told her. “Whatever happens, your part will be to hold out as long as you can. Any assistance you give might make a difference; every hour of delay may mean an hour of life for others.”

  “What difference does it make, if the end is the same?” she said resentfully.

  “Maybe it’ll make a difference in the end,” he said.

  “If you believe in miracles!” She sighed, pulling herself together. “I’ll try, Sam ... but I’m not counting on the cavalry arriving in the nick of time.”

  The cell was hot and musty even before the sun had passed above the treetops the next morning. Durell awoke thirsty, and realized he hadn’t had anything to drink since the previous afternoon. His mouth tasted as if it had been stuffed with dirty cotton.

  They came and took Muncie a few minutes later. She looked very frightened, all the numbing terror of the unknown visible on her face. He could only watch helplessly.

  When they were gone, he turned to Gupta. “Let’s check the bars on the window,” he suggested.

  But the Indian couldn’t get up. “My back, Durellji; it pains me.”

  “Ribs?”

  “Not ribs—something inside, I think.” He raised himself onto his elbows with a groan.

  Durell pulled up Gupta’s shirt and found massive bruises all over the man’s torso, souvenirs of the beating Alegra had given him. “Have we any water?” Gupta asked.

  Durell strode to the door. “We need water down here!” he yelled. He thought he may have heard a distant laugh. Then silence. A sickening rage squeezed his stomach like a fist. Crossing back to Gupta, he felt the man’s forehead and found it burning with fever. He was probably bleeding internally, with the injuries already infected. “Try to rest,” he told him. Gupta winced as he lay back on the floor.

  Durell went to the window and pulled himself up by grasping the bars. Outside was a courtyard paved with pitted limestone, surrounded by a wall. The wall was not so high that he couldn’t scale it—if he could get to it.

  Sweating in the muggy heat, he began to work on one bar, twisting back and forth to loosen it in the plaster. He felt rewarded within a few minutes, when he could turn the bar an eighth of an inch. Bits of rotten plaster began breaking loose, and he brushed them away with growing excitement.

  He heard the chattering of a troop of jungle monkeys, the crowing of birds.

  In a quarter of an hour, he had loosened the bar so that he could turn it a half-inch and jiggle it up and down. He worked faster, certain that a little more time was all he needed to work the bar completely loose.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Quickly, he packed clods of plaster back around the bar and got away from the window.

  It was Caske, with Alegra. The latter carried his slung Uzi and a water pitcher.

  “Gupta, they’ve brought something to drink,” he said.

  The door opened, and Caske stood before him, smiling. “We heard your call for water. Forgive the delay.”

  Durell indicated Gupta. “He may have internal bleeding, thanks to your Nazi friend.”

  “Then he must be very thirsty. Luis?”

  Alegra grinned evilly and tilted the pitcher, pouring its contents onto the floor. His eyes were like needles in Durell.

  The smell of the fresh water raised a frantic thirst in Durell, but he didn’t give Alegra the satisfaction of showing any emotion. Turning to Caske, he said, “What do you want of me?”

  Caske replied in a matter-of-fact voice. “People are leverage against other people, Mr. Durell, and leverage means success. In the present case, you’ll give me leverage by your suffering.” He paused, studying Durell. “Yes, that’s all I want of you—your suffering.” Caske’s eyes turned sinister. “Be so kind as to come with us,” he said, stepping aside.

  A cold feeling crawled down Durell’s spine, but staring at Alegra’s Uzi. he knew he had no choice.

  They took him outside, to the courtyard he’d seen from his cell. The unaccustomed tropical sun flashed against his eyes with brutal force as he was led across paving stones that were already hot. The destination was a small, sentry-box-style structure made of corrugated metal, freshly painted black. There was no shade anywhere near it.

  As they locked him inside, Caske said: “Have a nice day, Durell. Think water.”

  Pacing the tiny cubicle was a matter of two steps one way, two another; there was barely enough room to sit on the floor. And when he sto
od up, the hot roof was within an inch of his head. In a little while he’d shrunk down to the center of the chamber, as far from the metal walls as he could get. The sun turned it into an oven.

  Hours passed. The air became so suffocatingly hot he felt he dared not breathe it.

  Sweat soaked his clothing, lying against his clammy skin without evaporating.

  From time to time he heard passing voices, the sawing of wood and hammering of nails.

  He tried not to move at all in order to conserve his vitality. Besides, there was no place to hide from the hot metal encasing him.

  By noon he was gasping for breath, and by midaftemoon, when even the insects hid and the birds no longer sang— when the corrugated tin was too hot to touch and the mere thought of cool water on the tongue was enough to drive Durell crazy—he began hallucinating.

  In horrible visions he saw Muncie and Maj. Miller, and his old Grandpa Jonathan and Gen. McFee, the living mixed with the dead, calling from a cool shade beyond a river of flame.

  He wanted to go to them, but he couldn’t face any more fire.

  He was being consumed by fire.

  He heard screams that he later realized came from his own mouth.

  Then a hornet’s buzzing filled his ears, bringing the fire with it, right inside his skull, growing louder and hotter. . . .

  A sweet coolness bathed Durell, and he blinked eyelids that were sticky with tears. Hands held him under the legs and arms, carrying him across the flagstones of the courtyard.