Assignment - Ceylon Read online

  “Hold it. Just like that. Don’t move.”

  The figure waiting for him in the armchair that faced the entrance was grotesque, startling, unnatural.

  He lolled at ease, but his face was enclosed in a brilliantly painted ritual mask of the sort carved by the craftsmen at Ambalangoda.

  Durell almost squeezed the trigger.

  The voice behind the mask was muffled. “It’s a gag, Cajun. Your nerves are very, very good.”

  Durell said, “Take if off. Now.” He looked at the man’s hands. They were empty. “You’re a black man.”

  “Reckon so. I was just funnin’ you, Cajun.”

  The voice tickled his memory again. “Willie?”

  “The former Major William Wells, rank dispensed by the Boganda People’s Revolutionary Army. Once a mercenary, the idea kind of gets into your blood.”

  “Take off the mask,” Durell said again.

  “Sure thing.”

  It was Wells. Even lounging in the chair, Durell remembered the magnificent, competent figure of the man, the intelligent brown face, the sad and secretive eyes. Memories of the incidents in Boganda last year flickered and flashed through Durell’s mind. He did not let his gun waver. Wells, as a mercenary, had been on the opposite side that time, hiring his capacities to an uprising that had given Durell some difficulty during a siege of the Getoba district in the African capital. In the end Willie had changed sides and had been offered a job with K Section. Durell had never expected to see the man again,

  “What are you doing in Sri Lanka?” he asked.

  “Working, man. Like you.”

  “For whom?”

  “After Africa I went home to DC and took you up on your offer. Went to see your boss, General Dickinson McFee. Strange little fellow. No nerves in him. He hired me, allowed I might be useful in K Section.”

  “You once said you were a citizen of the world.”

  The black man shrugged. “I’ve got to eat.”

  “And you’ve been tailing me?”

  “Yup.”

  “And trying to kill me?”

  “It makes me sad. I like you, Cajun.”

  “Why are you trying to kill me?”

  “Sit down, Sam,” Wells said gently. “Relax. I’m very, very good at my job.”

  “I know that. Answer me.”

  “It’s orders. I’ve been sent by K Section—by your former boss, General McFee.”

  “Former?”

  “He gave me the orders to kill you, Cajun.”

  Durell’s face did not change. “Why?”

  “You’re a traitor. I was told to eliminate you. Don’t move, Sam. I'm sorry. If you take another step, the gun goes off. It’s right behind you, over the door. Taped good and tight. The line goes across the floor, there, you can see it. Step on it, any place, and your head gets blown off.”

  Durell stared at the black man. He did not believe anything Willie Wells said. He was aware of a vast confusion. “I could kill you first,” he said finally.

  “You’re not the type. Sit down in that chair next to the door, right behind you— and face me. I’m sorry, buddy. I really like you. I really do. As much as I can like anyone in this world.”

  “I’m not a traitor,” Durell said.

  “McFee thinks you are.”

  “That little bastard. After all the times—”

  “I’ve seen the evidence, Sam.”

  “There can’t be any evidence.”

  “I saw it. Airtight.”

  He thought of something. “Does Dhapura know about you?”

  “No. I showed him my credentials. Told him we were old friends. Told him I wanted to surprise you. Sit down like I said. We’ll talk first.”

  Durell turned his head finally. Wells’ gun was there, aimed at him. It was not such an effective trap. One step either way, and the gun would miss. It was childish. It was another game Willie was playing, like the startling Ambalangoda mask that now rested on the floor beside Wells’ chair. He looked around the room. Everything had been moved, searched, taken apart and put together with a certain arrogant carelessness. Through the tall windows and beyond the iron balcony came the normal street sounds of Colombo’s traffic. But everything seemed suddenly tilted, thrown out of normal perspective.

  It wasn’t possible to come to this, he thought, after all his years in the business. There was sometimes the problem of defectors, who had to be eliminated, yes. Misguided or greedy, men, or those who had cracked under the strain and gone over the wire to the other side, to seek sanctuary, money, another world that existed only in their tormented minds. It was not possible to accept. But suddenly he believed Wells, this lounging, ominous and professional figure, who spoke with a mortal simplicity.

  “How much time do I have, Willie?”

  “As long as you like—within reason.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “You’re a cool one, Cajun. Don’t play for extra time. You know all about it, anyway.”

  “I’d like to hear the evidence against me. I tell you now, there’s been a mistake.”

  “Does General McFee often make mistakes like this?” “No,” Durell admitted. “Never. But tell me.”

  “Okay.” Wells hitched himself up in the chair, using his elbows on the arms. He still looked relaxed, but not in his eyes. There has to be another weapon, Durell thought. One that was not a gag. He sat down carefully in the straight-backed chair beside the door and kept his S&W on his knee, the muzzle pointed at Willie Wells’ stomach. A gut shot frightened any man. But Wells did not look frightened. He still seemed sad and quietly confident. It was just a job for him. A contract. All of which made Wells the most dangerous predator of them all.

  “I’m curious,” Durell said, urging him to talk.

  “You sold out. A man like you, Cajun, in the business so long that you couldn’t quit even if you wanted to—a man might get tired of it and lose his nerve, knowing the odds get longer and longer against him every day he sticks with it—it could be that. So you sold yourself.”

  “To whom? For how much?”

  Well sighed. “I have to reach in my pocket.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Take care of the wire under the carpet.”

  “I could kill you right now,” Durell said.

  “You really should. Because my contract calls for wiping you, Sam. And I’m going to do it too.”

  “If you can.”

  “I can,” Wells said.

  He was cautious taking the papers from his pocket. He put them on the rush carpet and toed them toward where Durell could pick them up. Durell thought of contact poison in the papers, of thermite impregnation, of a booby trap. The papers looked clean enough. He bent forward, keeping his gun trained on the black man, and touched the papers with his fingertips, not taking his eyes from Wells. Wells said, “It’s all right. Just Xerox copies of Swiss bank accounts. Your signature is on them all. For secret accounts amounting to half a million dollars.”

  “Chicken feed,” Durell said. “Would I sell out for that little? I could get much more.”

  Wells only shrugged.

  The papers looked authentic. Incredibly, it was his signature on the account in the Suisse Banque Cantonale de Geneve. He knew the manager there. The manager’s name was Fouquier. The name was on the papers, under his own name. The writing looked genuine. It was the best forgery Durell had ever seen. His face did not betray the manner in which he was shaken.

  “I’d have to study these carefully—when I don’t have to keep an eye on you, Willie.”

  Wells shrugged again. “Sorry.”

  “Who is supposed to have paid me all this?” His mind turned on what other weapon Wells had concealed here.

  “The Russians? The Black House? And McFee really believes all this?”

  “He’s not infallible. But there’s more.” Wells paused “Do you deny these are your signatures?”

  “Of course I deny it.”

  “There is also
King and Thompson,” Wells added. “They’re up in Kandy,” Durell said. “I sent them of three days ago, and I haven’t heard from them since. Art they in this lunatic scheme with you, Willie?”

  “No. They’re in Kandy, all right. For good. And that’s why I’m not sorry to do what I have to do, Sam. You sen’ them up to be killed. I don’t know what else this is al about. I don’t give a damn about Sanderson, who’s beer kidnapped. It happens almost every day now. Routine. A new tool of the lunatic terrorists. But you don’t kill youi own men every day, do you? It turns my gut over, thinking you did that.”

  Durell spoke with deadly calm. “Are you saying thai King and Thompson have been murdered?”

  “You ought to know. You sent them into an ambush up there. I don’t know why, and I don’t ask questions aboui it. You did it yourself. You shot them, two days ago.”

  “But I wasn’t—” Durell began. Then he was silent thinking of Aspara. Wells said, “So where have you beer for the past weekend? You’ve got an alibi, Sam?”

  He couldn’t destroy Aspara. “No, no alibi.” he said. “Dhapura doesn’t know where you went. He can’t 01 won’t say. I know you’ve been in Kandy.”

  “I haven’t been to Kandy.”

  “Ah. Somewhere else?”

  Durell had felt anger before, but nothing like this.

  Wells persisted, “It’s important. Can’t you say when you’ve been?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s nothing to do with you.”

  “Or with Ira Sanderson? Look, your two men wer< boxed near Sanderson’s house at Kandy. You sent then there to see what they could learn about Ira’s activities be fore the PFM snatched him. They were boobied, they were smeared, man, and they were good fellows, both of them. You’re the only one who knew what they were up to. Did they learn something about you that made them dangerous to you? Hey? You look funny, Sam.”

  “I feel funny,” Durell said.

  “So you went to Kandy and dropped ’em because they knew you’d gone over the wire? Is that it?”

  “No.”

  “Then where were you?”

  He couldn’t tell Wells he had been with Aspara. He didn’t trust Wells. He didn’t know what to believe. It was incredible that General McFee had put him on the extinction list. He couldn’t accept it. But here was Wells, big as life and twice as lethal. If he betrayed his tryst with Aspara, the woman would be destroyed politically. The times were antiforeign; her career would be ended. He couldn’t do that to her.

  He looked at the mask, the ves mahuna that Wells had put on the floor beside the easy chair.

  “I want to talk to Washington,” he said..

  “No way, man.”

  “I don’t believe Harry and Joe are dead,” he said.

  “They are. You killed ’em.”

  “And the signature on that numbered Swiss account is a forgery,” Durell said.

  “They’ve been checked by the experts at No. 20 Annapolis Street. You signed that account. That half-million is yours.” Wells’ hands were quiet on his thighs. “I’m really sorry, Cajun. You’re very good at your job. There’s no use going around in circles over this. I’m taking a chance just , talking to you. I tried for you three times, and no go, you’re too fast and too smart. But I thought you had a right to know why I’m doing this to you, for old time’s sake, for the time you helped me in Boganda.”

  “You’re insane,” Durell said.

  “Aren’t we all? So goodbye, Sam.”

  He heard a small click and got out of the chair an instant before the bomb went off. There was an electronic whir a fractional second before the explosion came. The wooden chair, with its padded back, had been rigged for an execution.

  The explosion was not loud. It was a fragmentatioi device, designed to burst into Durell’s back as he sat in the chair. He felt the heat and shock of the blast as h( dropped to one side, landing on his knees, his gun loose ir his fingers. The force of the explosion, without Durell tc cushion it, lashed out at Wells. He went over backward ir his armchair, his face suddenly a startled mask of blood There was no time to think. Durell scrambled forwarc through the smoke and the noise, aware of a pain in hi; right shoulder; he retrieved his gun. Wells was crawling or all fours, trying to reach into a pocket. He kicked at the man, felt his heel impact on the other’s ribs. Wells grantee and fell to one side and came up with his Luger. Durell hi him with the butt of his .38, desperate now, aware of fire crackling behind him. Wells had done a good job, his best But it was not good enough. He was still alive. He felt the black man claw at his ankle as he struggled up, felt i numbness in his shoulder. Wells’ eyes were desperate angry. There was blood on his neat white shirt. Several fragments of the small bomb had hit him full on as he had faced Durell’s chair. Durell hit him again. The man’s grip was stubborn. Durell kicked at his clawing hand, stamped on it, swayed erect. The room was full of smoke. The execution chair in which he had been sitting was splintered the padding on fire. There was no time to think. He hi Wells once more, and the man collapsed, tried to lift and crawl forward a bit, then collapsed again.

  Durell stood uncertainly, aware of pain and anger, of incredulity that this had happened to him.

  He looked at Wells, on his face on the floor. He wanted to kill the man. His finger tightened on the trigger. He trembled from head to foot. Wells rolled over on hi back, groaning. The man’s teeth gleamed between tight lips. He looked up at Durell’s figure towering over him.

  “Lucky,” he gasped. “You’re lucky, traitor.”

  “I haven’t gone over the wire,” Durell rasped. “Not ye1 anyway.”

  He forced his finger to ease its tension on the trigger Wells stared at him from pain-clouded eyes. The rest o his face was hidden with blood. Durell turned and went to the door and left the hotel room.

  five

  Mr. Dhapura wrung his hands.

  “I am sorry, please, I assure you, oh, please—”

  “Your radio,” Durell said. “Quickly, now.”

  “Forgive me, yes, sir, certainly—” Dhapura paused. “You need a doctor, sir. What happened? I heard something upstairs. I believe there was a lire—”

  “Your staff put out the fire. How long did you know that Wells was here?”

  “I did not know, I swear it, I apologize, please, your back is all bloody, it is terrible—”

  “Let’s try the radio.”

  “Of course. Come. Can you tell me what happened?” “No. Let’s go.”

  Mr. Dhapura rolled his eyes and backed toward the rear door of his hotel manager’s office. The excitement in the lobby of the Royal Lanka had died away. No one had called the police. As far as Durell knew, no one had found Wells in his room. The man had gotten away somehow, despite his wounds from the bomb blast—an exhibition of pure willpower.

  There was a small file room behind the main office, then a narrow corridor and a flight of stairs.

  “The staff’s quarters,” Dhapura explained. “And the supply lockers. Beyond is the communications room.” “What’s in the supply lockers?”

  “Everything. China, linen—”

  “Bandages?”

  “A first-aid kit, yes.”

  “Get it.”

  “You will need new clothes, sir. What happened?”

  “Stay calm, Mr. Dhapura,” Durell said.

  “But I did not expect all this here, sir. I run a quiet establishment. My job with your people was a—a sedentary one, sir. Collecting data, listening to conversations in the lobby. Sending in reports. I have never seen a man like you, sir, with a gun. I did not guess it would come to this—”

  Mr. Dhapura’s hands shook as he took out a shiny first-aid kit from a locker and thrust it at Durell. Then he hurried up the flight of steps, looking back with frightened eyes. The communications room was in the rear of the hotel, in a small wing beyond the rooms where the hotel servants were quartered. Dhapura worked at a ring of keys, and at last the door was open
. Durell felt a momentary dizziness as he followed the man inside.

  The TK-12 transceiver gleamed against the wall in the hot, shadowed little room. Durell was aware of the pressure of time, of Wells, who had vanished, but who certainly would not give up his objective. He felt exposed on all sides, hunted by Wells, perhaps by the PFM, an outcast from the world in which he had lived and worked for so long. He did not want to think about it. It was too much to accept.

  He waved Dhapura aside, paused a moment to collect the Q Code in his mind, and snapped on the. transceiver. The world-wide radio transmissions established by K Section would reach Washington in seconds, his message confirmed by his code call. He began working out a Q inquiry directly to General Dickinson McFee at No. 20 Annapolis Street. Mr. Dhapura made small moaning sounds -and tentatively pushed the first-aid kit toward him across the table. Durell nodded and shrugged out of his shirt. The Sinhala made shocked clucking sounds as he looked at Durell’s back.

  “A doctor, sir. All these metallic fragments—”

  “From a bomb,” Durell said.

  “But—why, sir?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “But who did it, sir?”

  “One of our people,” he said grimly.

  “S-sir?”

  “Put a bandage on it, please.”

  “Yes, but I am not a doctor, I know nothing of wounds, it might be serious and get infected.”

  “Do as I say.”

  He sent his Q inquiry and waited, sent it again. Silence. The transceiver hummed. Mr. Dhapura attended to his shoulder, patting fearfully at the flesh wounds.

  He sent his message a third time.

  Nothing happened.

  “Are you sure this is operative?”

  Mr. Dhapura patted his hands together. “Yes, sir. Only the other day—”

  He stared at the radio. It was working, all right. His message had gone through. But there was no reply.

  He was cut off from Washington.

  He was outcast.

  His Q code should have received a reply in no more than ten seconds. But Washington did not want to talk to him. There was no court, no judge, nowhere to appeal.