Assignment Maltese Maiden

by Edward S. Aarons

  “I wish you luck,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  He closed the door after her.

  When he had counted to ten, he picked up his own tattered Arab robe, tucked his gun in his waistband, stepped into the hotel corridor after her. There were smells of cooking, of curry and lamb, in the stale, hot air. The girl was not in sight. To the right, the corridor ended in a window overlooking the souk. The staircase to the dingy lobby was at the left. He moved down swiftly and glimpsed the girl just as she went out through the tiled doorway into the narrow street.

  Anna-Marie was easy to follow, although she suspected he was there, since she turned to look backward several times. It was the middle of the afternoon now, and the souk, despite the heat that slammed down from the brazen sun, was crowded with shoppers, old men and screaming children, and even a few of the muffled, secluded medina women. Durell dodged a donkey next to the lean-to containing the coppersmith’s shop and weaved his way through the shrill bargainers toward the Bab el-Karrem, one gate to the old Arab city. Very few cars could negotiate the narrow, shadowed alleys under the arches that made tunnels for long stretches of the way.

  The girl was half-running. The huge gate in the notched medina wall was half a mile from the hotel. She crossed a slightly larger lane, where two Fiats and a battered taxi were parked, crowding some camels and a small flock of sheep hard against the stone houses. The doorways were deeply recessed, painted blue and decorated with stars, moons, fish, and Fatima’s hand for good luck. For a moment, Durell thought she had the taxi waiting for her. But she turned into a narrow alley and paused before a food stall, taking the amateur’s opportunity to look backward again.

  Durell stepped into a dark doorway. It was difficult to identify any of the robed figures who passed in the afternoon sun. A man in a barracan moved slowly past the recess where he stood, paused to look at the girl at the food stall, and started forward again.

  “Keefe,” Durell said quietly.

  Keefe was good at it. He paused casually, as if he had forgotten something, looked upward at the house where Durell stood, then came into the doorway.

  “Cajun, for Christ sake—it’s the girl!”

  “I know. How did you get on to her?”

  “Luck. Just ten seconds ago. How did you—?”

  “Never mind. Join me. Did you get anything on Hung?” “No way,” said Keefe. “Nobody talks. But we can take that little bitch now, make her spill what we need—”

  “You’re too eager,” Durell said.

  Keefe looked angry under the hood of his robe. “And you’re not? You’re damned cool about it. We lose Mills and Damon, and there she is, and you—”

  “I’ve spoken to her,” Durell said. “She has some problems. I couldn’t force it. But she’ll lead us to Hung. Have you seen Perozzo?”

  “He hasn’t come back from the banks yet, I guess.” “Well, we’ll use the double-tail system, okay?”

  “If you say so.” Keefe looked hungrily at the girl. “But if you ask me, we could grab her and work her over—”

  “We’ll just follow her,” Durell said.

  Apparently, Anna-Marie was satisfied that she was not being observed, and she moved away just then, turning from the direction of the gate toward the heart of the old Arab city. There was no pattern to the narrow, shaded alleys and small courtyards here, and the dual system of tailing her was not easy. Keefe tried a parallel alley, leaving the girl for Durell to observe, and Keefe found himself veering to the left, away from her path. Durell tried to keep himself among the passersby in the airless, hot byways. At one point he lost sight of her for some minutes, when he found himself in a small rectangular court bounded by high, windowless houses. There seemed to be no way out. A flight of stone steps led up to a large door with heavy hinges across its palm-trunk planking, and he climbed the steps just as two old men came through. They paid no attention to him. He brushed by through the door and found himself on an upper-level alley which yielded a glimpse of Tripoli’s blue, sparkling bay. The girl was just turning into a lane fifty yards ahead. The place was a rat’s nest of byways, with a few sidewalk cafes where Tripolino men sat at tiny tables and sipped sweet Arab tea and argued business or politics. A few turned their heads to watch the girl’s robe-shrouded figure as she hurried by.

  This was an area of better houses, in which luxury was hidden by tall blank walls that faced the alley. When Durell turned the corner, Anna-Marie had disappeared.

  He doubled his pace and heard the small click of a latch closing in the plank door to his right. He did not hesitate. He swung hard, slammed his shoulder against the door before the latch completely shut, and burst through.

  The stout, middle-aged Chinese, holding the girl’s wrist in a painful grip, was surprised. He wore a baggy white linen suit, a dark red Turkish fez, and a neat dark necktie. There was an immediate oddity about his round face—a scar had completely removed his left eyebrow, while the right brow was heavy and shaggy, making his countenance appear lopsided. Durell glimpsed a shadowed corridor, walled with tiles painted in a pyramidal design, and an arched doorway into an elegant inner court, where a yellow-tiled fountain tinkled between blooming roses and tall date palms.

  The girl gasped, “Please. I didn’t want you to follow me. I didn’t plan to come here—”

  Durell said, “Let her go, Major Won.”

  “Ah,” said the Chinese. His belly moved in what might have been amusement. “You know me?”

  “Major Won, of the Black House, Lotus Section, Peking.”

  The stout Chinese bowed. His English was Cambridge. “And I know you, my dear sir. I have been hoping for this meeting. Not quite yet, perhaps, but it may be just as well. You are Samuel Cullen Durell, field agent, K Section, Central Intelligence Agency, Washington, D.C. Acting under a Q directive, I understand. You have friends with you?”

  “Outside,” Durell said, wondering where Keefe might be.

  “Keep them there, please. We can discuss all this most amicably, I’m sure.”

  “Let go of the girl.”

  “Ah. We have a mutual interest in her, of course. You will not run away, my dear?”

  Major Won released the girl and she moved instinctively toward Durell. The Chinese smiled and finished bolting the door. There were fine Fezzan rugs and woven food mats decorating the walls, and the tiled floor was highly polished. The stout man moved lithely, for all his weight and apparent clumsiness.

  “We will have some tea, perhaps? I was not trying to kidnap the girl, sir. I am merely anxious to talk to her. Amicably, as I said. We have the same objective, Mr. Durell. I hope to convince you of that shortly. Please do have some tea. You, too, my dear.”

  “I can’t stay,” Anna-Marie said.

  “But you must. For your own good. And for young Mr. Lee and his poor, deluded father.”

  “Whose house is this?” Durell asked.

  “Mine, for the moment. Please be at ease. Madame Hung is not here. I wish she were. It is she who must be named as my objective, just as she is yours and Colonel Skoll’s.”

  Durell’s face showed no surprise. Won turned and preceded them to the fountain court. Doors were on either hand; above was a gallery where caged birds twittered and vines grew with great leafy exuberance toward the edge of the roof. The house had obviously been built by a wealthy Tripolino, perhaps a Turkish pasha from the Ottoman occupation, before Italy took over Libya as a colony. The building’s luxury was totally unsuspected from the mean, narrow alleyway outside. Durell could only guess at the house’s size and number of hidden apartments.

  Major Won, who looked anything but military, led the way up a flight of stone steps to a second floor above the courtyard. He turned, smiled and bowed again, and proceeded through an arched corridor of saffron tiles into a large, elegantly furnished room that might once have been a pasha’s harem. Tall, narrow windows overlooked the bay and the castello, the sea drive, and the sparkling white houses beyond the medina’s walls. Where the I
talians had planted barley and rice fields inland, however, there was now only a thin strip of green before the brown gravel and sand in the distance.

  “Please be seated. I intend no harm to either of you. Signorina Bertollini—or shall I say Miss McFee?—I beg of you to be at ease.”

  “My name is Bertollini,” said Anna-Marie.

  “Of course. I understand. I shall send for tea. Chinese tea, I might add. Not this sticky-sweet stuff that the Arabs drink.”

  “I’d rather have some explanations,” Durell said.

  “You Americans always rush straight to the point. Sometimes, my dear sir, time grows tedious, eh? But this is fortunate, most fortunate indeed.” Major Won rubbed his fat hands together. “I am delighted to have both of you here with me.”

  “And Madame Hung? You’re sure she’s not here?”

  “I wish she were. Then my mission would be ended.” “Are you looking for her?”

  “The Black House is—may I say it?—disenchanted with her efforts on our behalf.”

  Durell showed his skepticism. Major Won clapped his hands and an old Chinese came in, bowed, accepted the request for tea and cakes, and vanished. The room held a scent of jasmine, and flowers were arranged in a delicate Ming vase. Durell could not tell if the Ming was genuine or not, but he was impressed with the style in which Won lived. If he was a prisoner here, there was no sign of violence, and no effort had been made to disarm him. Major Won in his white suit looked shapeless and soft. But any contact with a man from the Black House made Durell distinctly uneasy.

  “Anna-Marie, have you been here before?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Just coincidence that you passed by?”

  “No. I heard of this place, and I thought—I felt you were following me. And I wasn’t sure where to go.”

  “How did you hear of this house?” he persisted. “Madame Hung mentioned it—yesterday, I think it was. And she knew Major Won’s name. She seemed alarmed.”

  Major Won said, “Just so.”

  “But Hung works for this man,” Durell said.

  Won said, “Not any more. As I told you, we are disenchanted. A terrifying woman, Madame Hung. A viper, a tigress. Driven only by a profit motive, not by patriotism for the People’s Republic of China. She has never lived in Mainland China, by the way. She does not follow the socialist precepts of Mao. She works for the highest bidder, for money. And we suspect we have been outbid, so to speak, in the matter we are all concerned with.”

  “What matter is that?” Durell asked.

  The Chinese servant came in with tea in a blue pot, tiny blue cups enameled with lotus blossoms and a brass tray of almond cookies. Durell took a seat, his back to the wall. Two doorways were in the room, and the narrow windows overlooked a long drop to the lane below. He heard the twittering of caged birds and smelled more jasmine. The house was cool, its thick walls keeping out the North African heat. Major Won busied himself with the tea things, while Anna-Marie sat stiffly, her hooded barracan pushed back to reveal her black, braided hair. Major Won’s single eyebrow lifted.

  “You will join me, please?”

  “Don’t touch anything, Anna-Marie,” Durell said.

  “You do me a dishonor. You suspect poison?”

  “The Black House has some good drug experts.”

  “But we are friends. We are allies now.”

  Durell said bluntly, “I’ve heard that before.”

  Won nodded. “I see. It is a matter of mutual distrust, then. I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Durell. Or shall I call you by your code name, Cajun? We in Peking expected you to be involved in this affair. They sent me, thinking I might be best able to convince you that we have mutual goals.”

  “Do we?”

  Won glanced at the girl. “Our little lamb has surely been used as bait by Hung, that sly beast. She has drawn us all here together. You should know, Mr. Durell, that I am no man’s enemy here. We both wish to see Hung punished for her perfidy.”

  “Has she really betrayed you?”

  Won nodded. “She has. Unforgivably.”

  “But she works for you.”

  “In the past, only as it profited her. Not now.”

  “So you write her off?”

  Won said gently, “We will eliminate her. The girl is the key, the ribbon that, if we follow it in mutual alliance, will see the world rid of Hung once and for all. You tried alone in the past and failed. I believe your General McFee is trying to do this now. But she holds all the aces, as I believe you would say in your national game of poker.”

  “I must get back to her,” Anna-Marie said thinly. “I must. Or she will kill Lee.”

  “Do you really believe, my dear, that she is still where you left her? She knows you have slipped away by now. That woman is quick. She is gone.”

  “But Lee—”

  “I assure you, he is still alive. Would she throw away the only thing that ties you to her?” Won spread his fat hands. “Please drink your tea. You are distraught.”

  She looked at Durell. He said, “I think he’s right. She’ll be gone by now.”

  The girl jumped up and started for the door. Durell said, “Major Won won’t let you go, Anna-Marie.”

  When she stopped and looked back, Major Won said, “We must have our talk, my dear.”

  “Am I a prisoner here?”

  “A guest, my dear.”

  “Against my wishes?”

  “Just for a short time. Mr. Durell?”

  Durell said, “We have nothing to say to each other, Major. I’m neither your friend nor an ally.”

  Another voice said bluntly, “You are sometimes foolish, Comrade Cajun.”

  It was Cesar Skoll.

  The Soviet KGB man entered the door on the right. His bald head gleamed in the hot sunlight that came through the narrow windows. He wore a white tunic with peasant embroidery and black, baggy slacks and leather Libyan slippers. His big hands were empty. He spread them like bear paws, grinning.

  “No weapons, Cajun.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I knew that sooner or later, Major Won would bring you here for a talk. Major Won and I are friends. Difficult to believe? We Russians and Chinese have been enemies for a long time. I do not speak of ideologies now. I speak of simple nationalism and imperialism. But we are all pragmatic men, Durell. If an unholy alliance is needed, we do what the facts demand. Major Won and I have already discussed a plan of procedure against Madame Hung.”

  Durell said drily, “I’ve wondered if Hung works for you, Cesar.”

  “No. She works only for herself.”

  “But she has to have customers for her information.”

  Skoll lumbered across the room and poured some tea without asking Won’s permission. The tiny cup was swallowed up in his massive hand. “I trust the major, you see. One must do so, to survive. I do not threaten you. Neither does Major Won. But please listen to us, Comrade Cajun.”

  Durell took Anna-Marie’s hand and sat down on a low settee with her. The girl’s lingers felt cold.

  Won said, “I realize that we three, amicably together in this room, create an unprecedented moment. As I say, we must be pragmatists in this business we pursue—”

  “Opportunists,” Skoll rumbled.

  “Ah. True. We three have a common enemy. All of us have suffered losses at the hands of the Hung organization. Shall I tell you about my brother, young Po, who purchased data from Hung with Peking’s consent about Russian plans to sabotage our Sinkiang nuclear establishments? It almost created war between Communist brothers. The information was false—or nearly so.” Won lifted his one eyebrow toward Skoll, who merely grunted. “My brother was executed for spending the people’s funds and being a dupe; he was charged with treason. A disgrace to my family, a hardship for myself. I was under suspicion myself for many months afterward.”

  “Was the data false?” Durell asked quietly.

  “We believe it was.” Won wav
ed a pale hand toward Skoll. “The KGB has also been duped and deluded by Hung. She will sell, or create something to sell, whenever she can. Her mind is so brilliant she can convince anyone of its verity.”

  “She’s never been charged with false data before.” “Perhaps she needs money more desperately. She was an extraordinarily wealthy woman, at one time, with interests all through Southeast Asia. You hurt her grievously, Mr. Durell. Perhaps, in her need to recoup, and in the growing sanity in relations between our countries, she must invent crises to keep her organization alive.”

  “What did she do to you, Cesar?” Durell asked.

  Skoll’s Siberian face grimaced. “We tried to penetrate her apparatus in Vladivostok, for example. Lost two very fine young men in the attempt. She killed them, very cruelly. Last month, in Rumania, she used some undercover people to sabotage a power plant and made it look as if the Yugoslavs did it. Luckily, the RKT called us in. We proved the charges false, but it could have caused serious trouble. Not to mention, my dear Cajun, any number of false trails leading to American imperialist spies throughout the Soviet Union. She was paid for each tip. We Russians do not hand out rubles for lies. It seems that Madame Hung can only thrive in an atmosphere of international tension. If it does not exist, she creates it. We are not warmongers. The Soviet Union is powerful, but so is the USA. We do not care to see the world reduced to atomic rubble on the advice of Madame Hung. So the decision was made in Moscow to eliminate her.”

  “And in Peking, too,” Major Won said.

  “And in Washington,” Skoll added grimly. “Otherwise, why is your General McFee after her? Using Pilgrim Project papers as bait, eh? You know this. We must be honest with one another now. Left alone, Madame Hung can create a world horror.”

  “So you want me to join you?” Durell asked.

  “That is why we are together here,” Won said.

  “Using Anna-Marie and her boyfriend as bait?” Anna-Marie spoke coldly. “I don’t want any part of your dirty spook business. You’re all cold-blooded killers, businessmen at it. I can’t believe my ears. I didn’t think such things really happened. I’m only interested in helping Lee get away. Then we’re going to America to live.”