Assignment - Suicide Read online

  He landed hard, rolled over, felt the drag of the big black chute, and scrambled to his knees; he was pulled down by the wind and got up rapidly and stood leaning against the drag of the canopy, hauling it in hand over hand, working swiftly and sweating under his flying clothes.

  His heels were dug deep into soft, yielding sand. He was on the soil of the Russian Socialist Federative Soviet Republic.

  Chapter Two

  THE PARACHUTE made a tight but awkward bundle under his arm as he trudged over the dunes. The darkness of trees loomed up ahead and he quickened his pace, presently trotting through plowed loam; he oriented himself by the probing searchlights to the north. He saw no houses, no roads, nothing but the flat emptiness of fields ahead of him and dunes at his back. Farther ahead was woodland, black in the dark rain. lo among the trees, the ground was still crusty with frost.

  A dog began to bark with a high, excited yelping, somewhere directly ahead. He stopped to listen, but the barking did not come nearer and he kept walking through the brush that began at this point, still carrying the bundled chute. He couldn’t leave it here as evidence after the alarm that had been sounded, but he was anxious to get rid of it.

  The air felt cold and crisp in his lungs, smelling of the sea and pines. The Woods and brush thinned and he came to the electric rail line on a high embankment ahead. He climbed it and followed the shimmering wet rails for several hundred feet before it crossed a muddy dirt lane that swung in the direction he wanted to go. He tried not to think any more about the Texas pilot. He tried to move as fast as possible, compatible with caution. The neighborhood would be aroused by the cannon firing in the sky and the crash of the plane.

  Another dog began to bark behind a wooden fence that sagged in front of a small izba, a log house with ornately scrolled carving around the yellow-painted door and roof eaves. A lamp glow came from the narrow windows that faced him and someone moved around in there, carrying an oil lamp. The glow went out and reappeared in a second window, but no one stepped through the door and Durell trotted quickly by as the dog yelped in frustration at him.

  The road twisted sharply to the right. The sea wind was bitterly cold, thrashing noisily in the brush, bending young pines and white birch to its will. Once as he jogged along he smelled wood smoke, pungent and warm, and he thought briefly of the bayous and cabins where he had fished the lagoons and the still green channels with his grandfather. That was all long ago and far away. He passed another izba, newer than the last, and he was startled to see a. television antenna on its roof. Somehow he had not expected it. This second izba was dark and offered no danger. The dacha he sought could not be too far away now. He heard the quick, icy gurgling of a stream and a moment later the lane crossed it on a crude wooden bridge. Ice and snow still gleamed white on the banks below. He looked back toward the sea and the beaches and saw that the searchlights in the sky had winked out.

  There will be no mercy if you are caught, Durell thought. It will do no good to tell them about Sukinin, their own agent who had died in Washington. Their men were in America just as he was here—more of them, in fact. It would be useless to mention Luke Marshall, to demand to know where he was and why he had vanished from the Embassy. If you asked, you met a wall of cold, persistent silence. If you were careless or unlucky, you met a cold bullet in the back of the head.

  Durell stopped short. He listened and melted into the wet black underbrush beside the lane. Somewhere ahead, beyond a bend of the road, was a car, the motor idling softly. His breath made a long plume of vapor in the frosty night. He wished for a moment that there was a moon, or at least stars. The night was luminous enough, however, in spite of the thin rain, because of the reflected glow of Leningrad’s city lights far in the distance, pale against the overcast. But there was little he could see here.

  The sound of the motor ended and nothing more happened and he walked around the bend and came in sight of the dacha.

  It was surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire, and off in the distance was the height of a watchtower that looked dark and deserted. A small gate stood open, inviting Durell forward, and he stepped through it onto a carefully trimmed, hedged lawn. Dimly through the rain he saw the massive bulk of a vast country estate. The big stone palace, in the style of the French Renaissance, was dark. To his left, however, was the gatehouse, squat and low and functional, graced only by extraordinarily wide eaves of carved wood. The gatehouse stood at the end of an asphalt lane that passed through an iron gateway to a wider road beyond. He had come upon the dacha from the rear. Electric lights glowed in the narrow windows of the gatehouse and Durell paused at the edge of the trimmed garden hedges and checked the description of the place with what he remembered of Sukinin’s words; it looked the same. He walked out across the lawn, skirting patches of lingering snow under the low boughs of pine and cedars. The car in the driveway was a small Pobeda, painted black. He touched the motor cowl and found it was warm, but not too warm. It was parked in deep shadow under a giant pine.

  And then someone spoke to him from the darkness at his back.

  “Eezve neetye. Excuse me. Kindly do not move for a moment, gospodin.”

  Durell stood quite still. It was a woman’s voice, but there was no softness in it. Pitched low, it carried the ultimate command and he obeyed, aware of being called “mister” rather than comrade or citizen. He had not expected a woman, somehow. Footsteps crunched lightly in the ice under the pines. A bough was moved accidentally and a shower of cold rain spattered him as he stood beside the Pobeda.

  “Gospodin Durell?” the woman asked.

  “Da.”

  “Spaceeba. Thank you. Please turn around.”

  The woman’s voice was young but unfriendly, and her face was dim and remote as he turned to look at her. He still carried the parachute bundled under his arm. She was tall, and in the dim light shining from the windows of the dacha, he saw that she was young, still in her twenties, certainly, and she had a- dark blue scarf knotted about her head. He could not see the color of her hair. Her eyes were dark blue, like his, and her face tanned and golden-textured. She might have been beautiful, Durell thought, except for the small machine pistol in her gloved hand.

  “You are on time,” she said in Russian, “but you caused some trouble. It may he difficult now. It will be wise to wait a few minutes and see what develops. Come inside with me."

  “Put down your gun,” Durell said. “Aren’t we friends?”

  She did not smile. Her face was severe. “No, we are not friends. I do not think we will ever be friends. We are temporary allies in this matter, no more than that. We have much to do and not much time. We cannot leave si chas. Right now we must wait. Please go ahead of me into the house.”

  He obeyed the chill command of her gun and moved on toward the front door, and when he stopped there she said sharply: “The door is not locked. Do you enjoy the cold and the rain, that you like to wait in it?“

  He drew a deep breath. “Luke Marshall was supposed to meet me here.”

  “Gospodin Marshall will meet us in the city."

  "How well do you know him?” Durell asked.

  “We have met.”

  “Is he still safe‘? Is he all right?”

  “No, he is not all right. He is not dead yet, but there is no hope for him."

  Durell stepped through the doorway. The house was overheated to the point of discomfort after the frigid spring night in the pine woods. A log fire burned in a huge hearth and there was also an old Russian stove of ceramic blue tiles that emitted stifling waves of heat from the far corner. There was a square oriental rug and heavy walnut furniture, an armoire, and a Biedermeier sofa. Tea simmered in a copper kettle on top of the ceramic stove. There was a tray on a table nearby, with apples, cheese and a square loaf of black bread. Two doors opened from the main room, which had a carved, beamed ceiling.

  Durell ignored the girl’s gun and opened one door after the other. The first yielded to a kitchen equipped with a
wood-burning stove, a round walnut table, and several unpainted kitchen chairs. The second was a bedroom furnished with a high and massive bed that required a small stool by which to mount into it. Curtains of rough, chintzy material covered these windows. The electric lamps were shielded by cheap paper shades. There was no one else in the dacha.

  Durell returned to the girl. She watched him with care, still with the innate hostility he had felt with her opening words, but she had pocketed the pistol. At least it was out of sight. She gestured toward his clumsy bundle of black nylon.

  “If that is your parachute, we must burn it. Also, you must change your shoes. They are wrong. You should be wearing black boots. I have a pair for you. And a gray fur hat. No self-respecting MVD agent would be without a hat, gospodin.”

  “I lost it when I jumped.”

  She looked alarmed. “Then they will find it?"

  “They’ll know someone landed," Durell said. “I couldn’t hide my footprints in the dunes where I came down. They shot down the plane, as I suppose you know. They are already alerted, Does that make our task impossible?"

  “It surely makes it more difficult. Please put on these boots. We do not have much time,” she said again.

  Not even the bulky, belted coat she wore could conceal the slim length of her legs and the refinement of her body. She wore very little make-up except for lipstick. He saw a stray wisp of ash-blonde hair under her head scarf, although her long, winged brows were dark. Her cheekbones were Slavic and prominent under delicate skin, and her mouth was a shade too wide. Tension, or fear, had changed her blue eyes almost to black, and she bit her lip momentarily, watching him, although Durell noted that she did not get within reach of him when he sat down to pull off his muddy shoes.

  She worked quickly, stuffing the nylon parachute into the stove, tossing his shoes into a closet, and producing a belted black overcoat and a gray fur hat. “Your papers now,” she said impersonally. “Hurry.”

  Durell handed her the papers he had received in Washington. She studied them with concentration, frowning. His estimate of her competence grew stronger, and as he looked at her again he felt impressed, He smiled.

  “Have you a name?” he asked.

  “Valya Hvalna.”

  “Is this your normal occupation, greeting foreigners?"

  “In a way,” she said, not meeting his smile. “I am a guide and interpreter for Intourist, gospodin.”

  He said in English, “Then you speak English?"

  “It would not be wise to do so," she replied in Russian. “If you want to know more about me, I am a graduate of the University of Moscow, with a doctorate degree in Russian literature and Western languages. I also speak French and Spanish. Not as well as English, but good enough for my job, This place belongs to a friend of mine. You will meet Mikhail soon. Strictly speaking, it is not his dacha, but his Uncle Sergei’s. Sergei is an important man in Leningrad, but of course he knows nothing about Mikhail‘s activities with us. He would be shocked to know about us here."

  “How did you get mixed up in this?”

  “One does What is necessary, according to one’s beliefs. Please put on your boots. They should fit you quite well.“

  He had the first boot on when he heard the distant, spiteful crack of a rifle. The girl heard it, too. Her head came up, nostrils dilated, her mouth White and pinched.

  The sound came from a good way off, but its direction was deceptive, heard through the walls of the dacha and above the muted roaring of the ceramic stove that consumed the last evidence of Durell’s identity as an American.

  “They may be shooting at shadows,” the blonde girl said. Her voice was low. “i will step outside and see. Finish dressing, please. There may be time for tea. There is bread, if you are hungry.”

  She slipped out quickly and Durell found himself alone. He tugged on the second boot, put on the warm fur hat, and moved into the kitchen. His face was quiet, giving nothing away; it Was the face of a gambler, a poker player. He did not trust the girl. He trusted nobody. Back home, Deirdre Padgett knew little or nothing of his business. He stood still, listening, thinking of Luke Marshall. The dacha was silent except for the hungry lire roaring in the stove. The heat was oppressive. There were no more rifle shots outside. Through the window, he looked at the white stone mass of the palace nearby, a relic of Czarist days preserved by the Soviets for the elite of their hierarchy.

  Durell took two glasses and saucers, some sugar, and returned to the stove with a kettle of boiling water. The girl had not come back. He put two lumps of coarse sugar into his glass and poured boiling water over his loose tea and sipped twice and then started for the door. As he put his hand on the bronze knob, it opened and the girl tumbled inside.

  Her face was pale. “They are coming this way. A motor car. I am sure every house will be searched. They will come here, too.”

  He stood still. “Do we have anything to fear?”

  “Your credentials are very good.” Her voice was an accusation.

  He said dryly: “They should be. We used bona fide papers taken oil your spies and agents captured in my country.”

  “That is nonsense. I do not believe it. We do not spy on anyone, it isn’t necessary, and anyway—” She paused impatiently, and fear moved in her blue eyes. "Take off your clothes, please."

  “But you just—”

  “We have no time. Quickly!”

  Without waiting to see if he followed her order, she stripped off her coat and tore the scarf from around her head. She was wearing a simple gray flannel dress belted at the waist. Her figure was lithe and full. When she kicked off her boots, he saw that her feet, in cotton stockings, were small and delicate. Durell did not stop for more questions. He heard the sound of a ear approaching on the asphalt road to the dacha.

  The girl went into the bedroom. He heard the noises she made as she rumpled the bed, rolling on it. kicking at the heavy quilted blankets with her long legs. Outside, the sharp command of a man giving orders rang out. He took a long stride to the bedroom, halted, and caught his breath.

  Her body was magnificent. Her hair was the color of fresh honey, coiled in twin braids at the nape of her long neck. She was shaking it loose, and he watched it fall in flowing, thick textures down the satin-sleek skin of her back, all the way down to the small of her Waist. Seeing him, she jumped up from the bed and met Durell’s frank stare.

  “We are lovers,“ she said quickly, “It will embarrass them and they will not question us too much.”

  Durell still Wore his trousers. Under his appreciative gaze, the girl’s dignity faltered, and a faint blush began at her narrow waist, just above the swelling curve of her hips, and spread rosy-tinted up above her proud, firm breasts to color her cheeks. Durell had never seen anything like it. Her mouth shook. “Please do not look . . ."

  “I’m sorry.”

  There came a thunderous knocking at the door and a command to open at once. The girl whispered: “Remember who you are supposed to be. You must be angry at their intrusion—”

  Durell nodded and called out: “Shto vul hortitye (What do you want)?” There came another command and he started for the door. The girl jumped up again, rumpled his thick black hair. kissed him fleetingly to smear lipstick on his cheek, and then darted into the bedroom before he could unbolt the front entrance.

  In the instant before he opened the door, the thought flashed through his mind that this could be a trap. The entire plan of his entry into the country could have been discovered and the girl might have been sent here as a substitute for his legitimate contact as arranged back home. Durell drew a deep breath and opened the door.

  Chapter Three

  A. LARGE black Zis, like an American Packard, was parked behind the girl’s Pobeda in the driveway. Four men crowded the entrance and two others were vanishing around either side of the house. Two of them, armed with rifles, wore the dark blue uniforms of the MVD. The two in the doorway wore dark belted overcoats, gray fur caps, and shining bla
ck boots. The man nearest the door was short and fat and he looked up at Durell with surprise and quickly hidden gratification. His voice was thin and polite.

  “Your pardon, citizen, but we must investigate. There is no need for alarm, but we believe a Western spy has been landed nearby. We must search the dacha."

  “Come in, then. I don’t want to catch a cold,” Durell said.

  The man with the fat face nodded to the two with rifles and they slid past Durell‘s tall figure into the house. A moment later he heard the girl’s brief scream of fright, and then an angry stream of invective from her as she snapped at the uniformed men for intruding. Durell smiled apologetically at the fat leader. The other man’s eyes were pale and cold, like a blind man’s stare that never left his partially clothed figure. He looked at the big stove and walked toward it with a mincing gait and pulled off his heavy gloves to warm thick, pudgy fingers in the radiant heat.

  He spoke with his back to Durell. “Your papers, citizen."

  “Of course. I may be able to help. We heard shots not long ago. I am on my vacation, you understand, but one must always be prepared in an emergency to do one’s duty. We also heard a plane and gunfire in the sky. Naturally, we assumed that everything was being taken care of.”

  “Indeed.”

  Durell handed him his papers. The MVD man flipped through them quickly, almost casually, taking note only once to check Durell’s features with the photo on his identity card.

  “A very good likeness, citizen. You are from Moscow?”