Assignment Nuclear Nude Read online

  1

  Durell left his apartment at 1:14 in the afternoon. It was only a short walk to Rock Creek Park, in Washington. He knew precisely how long it would take to reach the fifth bench on the path that diverged to the right from the entrance. Before he quit the apartment, he checked the fine filaments on each window, snapped on a tape-recorder listening device hidden in a coffee grinder in his small kitchen, and tested it by tapping on a can of Louisiana chicory-flavored coffee nearby. Outside, the sun shone peacefully on budding April trees. The street below his red-brick apartment house looked normal, except for the blue Buick convertible that had parked near the comer two days ago.

  It was still there.

  Three times in each of the last two days, the men in the car had been relieved by new shifts. It was overt and blatant, and it annoyed him, because he was an old pro in his business, and he never underestimated the opposition. He had searched patiently for the primary watch, which would be far more subtle, but so far he had failed to discover it. This troubled him, because Durell was a careful man, and he knew that the computers of the psycho-medical team at No. 20 AnnapoUs Street had last estimated his survival factor at 01.547 on a median scale of ten. Which might as well be zero, he thought.

  He secured the door by giving the key an extra half turn, and this connected the lock with an alarm system at K Section's headquarters. He was not fond of the gadgets devised by the lab teams in the basement rooms at No. 20 Annapolis Street. He preferred to rely on his instinct and the training received long ago at the Maryland "farm." But in Peking and in Moscow his dossier carried the mandatory red tab. Too many people wanted to see him dead.

  He was not followed on his walk. He arrived at the park bench at 1:35. General Dickinson McFee waited for him, feeding two gray squirrels.

  "You are half a minute late," McFee said quietly.

  "I'm still under surveillance."

  "I know you always worry, Samuel. One should. But they're stupid."

  "I can't spot anything beyond the overt watch."

  "There is nothing else."

  "Do you know who they are, sir?"

  "Of course," McFee said.

  Durell checked his annoyance. He was fond of this small gray man. He had known McFee for almost fifteen years, and still did not know where McFee Uved, whether he was married and had a family, or how he spent his time when he wasn't commanding the field chiefs of K Section's apparatus of Central Intelligence. But he knew about McFee's blackthorn walking stick, which rested upright between the general's knees. It was a tiny arsenal, utterly deadly, comprising a dagger, a rifle, a small phosphorus bomb, and certain other implements he could only guess at. The tip had a poisoned dart. The weighted handle, with only a moderate blow, could crush m a man's skull. He had never seen McFee use it. But McFee was never without it. It made Durell a little nervous.

  McFee fed his squirrels. "Have you thought about it any further, Cajun?"

  "I gave you my answer a week ago."

  "It's a bit more urgent now."

  Durell said, "Let him get a private agency. Let him use an insurance company man. It's not in my line."

  "Clifton C. B. Riddle wants his art work back most urgently. It's quite astonishing. He put pressure on two senators, four congressmen, the Presidential secretary, and the Joint Chiefs. I've had a memo from the National Security Agency about it. I don't like it. But he wants you. It seems his daughter once mentioned you."

  "Yes," Durell said. "A young friend of Deirdre's." He paused. "But I'm not a lackey to a billion dollars, sir. I'm sorry about the pressure on you. But I won't do it."

  "If I order you, Cajun?" McFee's gray eyes were very pale in the April sunlight. "It is an order, you see."

  "I haven't signed my contract renewal yet."

  "We could arrange a bonus."

  "No, thank you, sir."

  "Mr. Riddle will pay you handsomely."

  "I won't work for that bastard. I'd rather resign."

  "You cannot resign," McFee said quietly.

  Durell sat very still. This had never been said before, although after all his years in the business, he knew he was forever set apart from the world of normal men.

  The wind in the park felt cool. The squirrels chattered and ran away, as if they felt a darkness in the small gray man. A couple rode by on bicycles, laughing. Durell watched them out of sight. So did McFee.

  Durell was a tall man, with a heavy musculature that was deceptive, because he could move with incredible speed and grace. He no longer knew how many scars he carried on his body. He had thick black hair, touched with premature gray at the temples, and he had the face and dark blue eyes of a hunter: quiet, patient, dangerous. He could make himself anonymous in a crowd, if he had to, but women felt an instinct for what he was, and were drawn to him with a frightened fascination. He had fine hands, with long fingers, a gambler's hands that could kill with deft silence or manipulate poker cards with lightning deception. He had long ago lost his boyhood Cajun accent, acquired in the delta country of Louisiana at Bayou Peche Rouge, where his old Grandpa Jonathan, that ramrod of a man, the last of the breed of Mississippi River gamblers, was living out his life on the hulk of the old paddlewheeler, the Trois Belles, which had been Durell's boyhood home. A law degree at Yale and all the years afterward with K Section had given him a command of six major languages and a dozen dialects and grim familiarity with every dark comer of every major city of the world.

  "Sir " he began.

  "I'm truly sorry, Samuel. Surely you know it is too late for you. You wiU sign your contract today." McFee paused. "There is a small bonus for you. Our budget "

  "And if I don't?" Durell asked. He felt chilly.

  "How can we allow you to return to civilian life?"

  "I'd go home."

  "You would be followed and found."

  "I know how to hide."

  "For how long? Time has no meaning for them."

  "You know my security rating "

  "And I know how much you know, Cajun."

  DureU's eyes looked black. "You haven't a man who could eliminate me," he said.

  "We could be patient, too. But that would not be necessary." McFee moved his walking stick ever so slightly. The tip rested on the toe of DureU's black shoe. "I could do it now. You know I could. You would be found here, a victim of cardiac arrest. I'm very fond of you, Samuel. You are the best we have." McFee sighed faintly. "I'm truly very distressed."

  "You'd kill me yourself? Here and now?"

  "Yes."

  "Then it's not just Clifton Riddle and the government's pressure on you."

  "It is and it isn't," McFee said. "Now come with me."

  Durell felt the slight pressure of the walking stick on his toe. He knew that McFee could trigger the tiny needle in its tip into his foot, and the April day, with its budding trees and great billowing clouds in a crystal sky, would end forever for him.

  "All right," he said.

  But he felt wounded.

  2

  The room was small, painted yellow, with only one door and no windows. The furniture consisted of a steel cot and a gray blanket, a gray steel Government Qass Four desk, a swivel chair, and a tape recorder. A single light shone on the young man who lay on the cot. There was a mirror opposite the cot, and from the adjacent room in the basement of the gray stone building at No. 20 Annapolis Street, Durell and McFee watched through the two-way glass, observing but unseen by the occupant of the room.

  The room was known as "No Place." It was not often used. Its results were grim and sometimes drastic.

  "That's Denis Deakin," McFee said. "We've had him for three hours. It's almost over. You'll get his dossier later. He worked for NASA before CUfton C. B. Riddl
e stole him to work in one of his industrial labs. Degrees from Cal Tech and MIT. Not much to look at, eh? His IQ is one hundred sixty-eight. In Arizona, where Riddle isolated him, he was making headway in trapping neutrinos. Skinny sort of chap, isn't he?"

  The man on the cot was about twenty-four, and affected a thin, sandy beard to look more mature. He was utterly naked, but Durell did not share McFee's estimate of the subject's physique. There was an unusual chest development, a deeper lung cavity than most, and heavy thigh and calf muscles.

  "He's a swimmer," Durell said.

  "Yes, his only recreation. Scuba diving. Good at it, I hear. Important?"

  "Maybe," Durell said. "What injection did he get?"

  "Al Greenberg gave him UH-three."

  "Heavy?"

  "He's told us all we need to know about Riddle, the lab, his work, and how he can get power from neutrinos."

  "What does this have to do with Riddle's obsession to hire me and recover an oil painting stolen from his collection?"

  "We don't know. But if it's important enough for Riddle to use all the pressure he's put on me, it's important enough for you to find out."

  "You could have told me this in the first place."

  "We didn't know this until the UH-three made Denis talk."

  "Riddle is a bastard," Durell said. "Suppose I have to kill him?"

  "Try not to," McFee said mildly. "Young Deakin will be all right in an hour and back in his hotel next to Riddle's suite, never missed, and with no memory of ever being here. He may have vague recollections of a bad dream, that's all."

  "Why does Riddle insist on hiring me?"

  "He knows you're the best we have. And he has the money to buy anything and anyone he wants."

  "Yes. Four wives, two divorces and a suicide, and a sad young flower-girl hippie daughter named Linda."

  "You will be interested in some other recordings we made by bugging Riddle's suite," McFee said. "Can you name the four richest men in the world?"

  "Clifton Riddle, for one," Durell replied. He frowned, studying the drugged young man in "No Place." "Ulrich Hans von Golz, West Germany. Yussuf Hadad Fazil, Turkey. Han Fei Wu, of Singapore and Hong Kong."

  "I'm very pleased with you, Samuel."

  "I'm not. What about it?"

  "All four men are meeting tomorrow at Riddle's private island in the Florida keys. Coming from all corners of the world. Why? Denis is ordered to go with Riddle. And something else."

  Durell waited.

  "By coincidence, all four men have just one daughter each. And each one is a flower child, a hippie." McFee coughed. "The four girls will be at San Mirabel, too."

  "So?"

  "Clifton Riddle wants you there, also."

  Durell was wry. "To help recover an oil painting?"

  "All four men are art collectors. But you know very well, Samuel, that the painting stolen from Riddle is not just another work of art. Moreover, we now know who stole the canvas."

  "I can guess," Durell said. "Clifton Riddle's own daughter, Linda. With Denis Deakin's help."

  "Correct. I'm very pleased with you, Cajun."

  At four o'clock Durell came up behind the Buick parked near his apartment house. The sky had turned overcast, and it would rain soon. The wind blew in cool gusts. He opened the near door of the car and bent down to look at the two men inside. One of them made an abrupt gesture to his pocket. Durell smiled.

  "Relax. You may now take me to your leader."

  "Hey, listen "

  "Let's go," Durell said. "He's waited long enough."

  They looked at each other and let him slide in. The driver adjusted sunglasses and said, "Well, that's the ticket, Mr. Durell. What Mr. Riddle wants, he gets. He's patient."

  "And rich," Durell said.

  Both men laughed. The driver started the car and the middle man gave Durell a cigarette and they drove off.

  Clifton C. B. Riddle had that indefinable, well-groomed aura of power that immense wealth lends to a man. There was nothing gentle about him. Behind his heavy, craggy face lurked the essence of violence, unbridled by normal restraint. The penthouse hotel suite, with its private elevator, was like the keep of a well-guarded castle, and Riddle the feudal lord. A Texan, in his youth he had stood trial for manslaughter, but had been acquitted. He had amassed his wealth by a combination of monomaniacal lust for money and power, control of oil and shipping during the war, and an expansion of corporate and financial complexes that left the Revenue Service powerless to discover his true worth and the extent of his interests.

  He did not offer to shake hands with Durell.

  "You made me wait a long time," he said heavily. "You drink bourbon, right?"

  "Nothing right now, thanks."

  Riddle had shaggy, winged gray brows. "I know all about you. You like good bourbon. Drink with me."

  "No, thank you."

  "I hear you don't want the job."

  "I didn't," Durell said. "But I've changed my mmd."

  "Why?"

  "A little man with a walking stick. You don't have to understand. And don't patronize me, Mr. Riddle. I'll work for you. We'll keep it on a business basis."

  "That's the way I want it. I don't Uke Cajuns."

  "I don't like Texans," Durell said. "At least, none like you."

  Clifton Riddle laughed. He was a meaty man with pink jowls, lynx eyes, and fleshy hands. He could be sixty, Durell thought. He had a private medical staff, attorneys, valets and chefs who traveled with him Uke a royal retinue, dedicated solely to the health, comfort, and prosperity of Clifton C. B. Riddle.

  "All right." Riddle sat down behind a Renaissance desk and did not offer Durell a chair. Durell chose one anyway and lit a cigarette because he knew Riddle objected to smoking. Riddle said, "I'll lay it out. It's a simple job. You know my art collection. I bought a new oil in San Francisco two weeks ago. A young artist, a hippie, but I think it's good. It was stolen from me, and I want it back."

  "Who took it?"

  "If I knew that, I wouldn't need you."

  "Tell me about the painting."

  "Contemporary. Pop. Colorful. Canvas is three by five. Female figure." Riddle grunted. "Not that you'd recognize it as such. It was cut from its frame and vanished."

  "The artist's name?"

  "Harry."

  "Harry?"

  "That's all. Just Harry."

  "Does the painting have a title?"

  "Sure," Riddle said. "The 'Nuclear Nude.'" He leaned across the desk and looked savage. "I want it back. I like to keep what I pay for. No matter who gets hurt."

  "Or killed?"

  "You're not squeamish about that, either."

  "It depends. How much did the painting cost you?"

  Riddle hesitated. "A hundred dollars."

  Durell said, "That's not very much."

  "I count pennies. It's the principle of the thing." Riddle's voice grated. "I don't want you to try to get it back. Do it. Put it in my hands. Personally. Not to the people I've borrowed you from." Riddle leaned back. "I think it's in Florida right now. I'm going down tomorrow. I've got an island there. You go to Key West. See me day after tomorrow. Lunch. I think the artist is there now. Maybe he's trying to con me. I'm not sure. Linda " The big man paused.

  "Your daughter?" Durell asked quietly.

  "She doesn't like me. She ran away to the hippie crowd in San Francisco. She got to know this artist, this tramp named Harry. That's how I saw the painting. So that's one more thing." Riddle's voice grew very soft. "I don't want my daughter mixed up with a bum like that. Understand?"

  "No, I don't," Durell said. "Spell it out. Do you want me to kill Harry?"

  "If you like," Riddle snapped. "I'll make it safe enough for you."

  "You're a son of a bitch, Mr. Riddle."

  Clifton Riddle laughed. "We understand each other."

  Durell left alone. He went down in the private elevator, passed a flunky on guard, and made his way to the lobby. Dusk was falling on the busy District s
treet outside. The tide of government workers jammed buses, taxis, and the sidewalks. He was halfway to the revolving doors when the girl hailed him.

  "Mr. Durell?"

  He recognized her from photos he had seen in the newspapers. Not just in society columns. Linda Riddle had made news at peace demonstrations, anti-draft parades, and police roundups at Berkeley and Haight-Ashbury.

  "Love," she said, smiling.

  "Hello, Linda. Were you waiting for me?"

  "Yes, but Daddy doesn't know about it. Did he bludgeon you into working for him? I know he pulled a lot of strings to get you. How is Deirdre?"

  "In Italy."

  "Are you ever going to marry her?"

  "Maybe."

  Linda Riddle's lovely blue eyes looked at him coldly. "You don't look like a man who can be bought. But I guess a person never can tell, right?"

  "I suppose not. Do you have Daddy's painting?"

  She smiled, her lips together. "I helped steal it."

  "Does he know that?"

  "I think so. Don't ask me where it is, love. In orbit, maybe. Like you won't get it from me. And I'm not worried about you. I was, but I'm not now, since Daddy bought you."

  "Good."

  "Are you going to San Mirabel? It won't help, you know."

  Linda Riddle wore her pale golden hair in a natural fall that swept forward over one shoulder. Around her neck was a heavy gold chain and a jeweled sunflower. There was something of her father in her, but it was softened by a smooth brow and clear gray eyes, a rather wide, full mouth. She was about nineteen, but growing up with a father like Clifton Riddle, a troubled childhood, and enormous wealth had marked her. She wore dungarees and a boy's turtleneck sweater and she was barefoot. Her long, fine-boned feet were dirty from the sidewalks. Under her bulky clothes, deliberately sexless, Durell guessed at a fine, rich body and young, athletic strength.

  "What is it?" she asked. "Don't stare like that." Her tone was imperious. She was accustomed to giving orders.

  He said gently, "You could be a very lovely girl, Linda."

  "I'm not interested in your opinion. Do you want to know what I think of an imperialist stooge like you?"

  He sighed. "Go on upstairs, Linda, and wash your feet."

  She stared, her gray eyes and pale face angry. Durell walked around her and left the hotel.