Assignment Nuclear Nude Read online

  He followed a channel now, knowing the tide was running out. In ten minutes he glimpsed a green expanse of sea, and beyond was San Mirabel, a green jewel with red-tiled Spanish roofs peeping through lush, exotic tropical specimen trees. He turned toward a series of jungled islets that enclosed a lagoon that would be the landing area for the float plane moored over there.

  The water was always shallow enough to wade. Once among the islets, however, the going was worse, and he had to detour impassable thickets several times.

  He had the feeling he was being watched.

  Twice he paused and waited. Birds moved in the small, olive-gray leaves. The slow tide made a purUng sound around the mangrove roots. The mosquitoes whined. Other insects shrilled. He saw a tiny Key deer, a fleeting glimpse of lovely, wild grace. After a long time, he went on.

  He was on a natural beach, on the seaward side of the tiny island chain, sheltered from any eyes on Riddle's strange fortress, when the girls stopped him.

  They came out of the water like four Aphrodites, all pearly and golden and gleaming of the sun and the sea. Four of them. Durell knew them at once. The slim, fair Linda Riddle, the taller, firm-breasted, broad-shouldered Valkyrie, Anna-Lise von Golz, the dark and jewel-like Ryana Fazil, of Turkey, and like a young goddess out of China's misty youth, the girl named Pan. It was obvious they had come to intercept him. They wore snorkeling outfits, which they discarded, and stood on the narrow beach to bar his way. Their feet were bare. Each girl wore around her graceful neck a heavy golden chain and a sunflower jeweled pendant. The pendants nestled between their proud young breasts. Otherwise, they were completely nude.

  They smiled at him.

  Linda Riddle said impatiently, "Sam, why don't you just cut out? Like you can't make this scene."

  Ryana Fazil, who had broader hips than the others, whispered gently, "Really, Mr. Durell, you should not come here."

  The German girl, Anna-Lise, reached down to the sand. Her legs and hips were splendid. She came up with a gleaming spear gun and said, "Otherwise, Herr Durell, we may have to kill you, you see."

  There was a scarlet hibiscus blossom, as red as blood, on the vicious spear point.

  The Chinese girl said nothing. She bit her lip and cocked her doll-like head to one side, and she listened. Durell heard it, too, and didn't like it. Pan gave a little shiver and plucked a small wild orchid from a mangrove limb and stepped forward to give it to Durell.

  "But we love you," she said shyly.

  He tucked the little blossom into his shirt pocket. He tried not to look at the four naked girls too closely. His shirt was soaked with sweat and clung to his chest and back. Short of violence—and he wasn't sure he could handle all four girls without hurting them, and the German girl with the spear gun seemed ready to use it—he could not go forward.

  "Linda, is Denis Deakin at San Mirabel?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Then I just want to talk to him."

  The four girls chorused together, "You can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because we love you," said Pan Han. "And we love Denis, too. And you might hurt him."

  "I promise I won't."

  "You would," said Linda sharply. "You're working against us."

  "And you four are working against your fathers?"

  "We will not discuss further," said Anna-Lise. Her German accent came through firmly. "You will please to turn around and go back and do not interfere anymore."

  Durell smiled. "How will you stop me? With flower power?"

  "With this," said Anna-Lise, and lifted the spear gun.

  "Peace," Durell said.

  "Love," she said.

  He looked at her weapon. He had the feeling, standing confronted by the four naked girls, that he was suspended somewhere between a nightmare and the sort of delectable daydream a randy old man might enjoy. The mangrove swamp was an unadulterated hell, noisome and steaming; but the four girls were the most beautiful he had ever seen.

  A Navy jet split the white-hot sky with a sound like tearing silk. The mud sucked at his wet shoes with primitive lust. The Chinese girl was listening for something, even now. He waited for the jet to stop shaking the sky, and then he heard it too. A branch in the mangroves behind him made a sharp cracking sound. He looked at the four girls, deliberately, scanning each of them from the neck down, considering their provocative breasts and swelling hips and long legs, all jeweled and salted by their swim in the sea to intercept him.

  It didn't bother them. The only reaction was a smile of contempt from the German girl.

  Another branch cracked nearby. Time had run out. He said quietly: "I'm going through. I must see your father, Linda. He took me off this job, but I don't think he really wanted to. I think he was influenced by Han, and people behind Han. Maybe he was told it was all too big for him to operate alone, with only me to help. So I've got to see him. And I must talk to Denis Deakin."

  "No," they said together. "But we love you."

  He stepped forward. Anna-Lise raised her spear gun. Her long, wheat-white hair snaked in wet coils about her breasts. He did not think any of the girls were imder drugs. But then Anna-Lise fired at him.

  He never knew if she missed deliberately or not. He heard the snap of the spring, the hiss of the spear point as it went by, and then he jumped for her and caught the long shaft of the trigger end and twisted it aside. Anna-Lise cried out in surprised anger, and the next moment the four girls were on him.

  The problem was that he did not want to hurt them. Their young, wet bodies were stronger and harder than expected, yet soft and sliding, weighing him down. He tried to sweep them aside and one of them tripped him deftly. He went down to one knee and then their combined weight descended on him, smothering him in long limbs, pummeling fists, sweeping curtains of long hair, pink-tipped breasts and strong legs. He came up again, dragging them with him. The Turkish girl, Ryana Fazil, was crying. Tears stained Pan's face, too. He thought, with a sardonic grimness, that violence seemed to hurt them more than himself. Anna-Lise was the toughest of the lot. She straddled him, locking long legs about his waist, and clubbed at him with the spear gun. His ears rang, and he felt blood on his cheek. He hit her open-handed, and she went backward with a sharp cry, all asprawl.

  Linda yelled and pulled away, anger twisting her mouth. Pan also jumped up and looked back at the mangrove swamp.

  A low stuttering sound from a silenced gun swept a curtain of warning slugs over their heads.

  As if they were one, the four girls scrambled for the water, naked and shivering, long legs flying, sand spurting from their feet. They dived cleanly, leaving hardly a ripple.

  Astonished, Durell stood up, alone.

  A man with a gun moved like a dark shadow through the mangroves nearby.

  He felt a savage satisfaction. This was a danger he could cope with. He had known that the girls' only aim was to keep him from talking to their fathers. Clearly, they were in a conspiracy against those four incalculably rich men. And those four were in a conspiracy against the rest of the world.

  He was sure of all this now, but he had no time to consider it. He dived for the mangroves as another burst kicked sand and coral in a spray from the beach. These shots were meant for him. Crouching, he moved among the mangroves, stepping on the roots. Brush screened him. It was fifty feet to the opposite shore of the islet, where he could see San Mirabel shimmering across the lagoon. He felt a fine quivering along all his nerves as he listened for the man with the gun. The stalker was careless and let another twig snap as he went out on the opposite beach. Durell couldn't see him, but he could mark the other's movements as the man searched for him. The end of the game was meant to be his death. Carefully, he stepped back into the mangroves and pulled a thin length of vine free and coiled it in his hand. He wanted silence, since there might well be others hunting him nearby, and he had no wish to give himself away.

  He waited for some minutes, screened from the open

  water of the lago
on. The other man finally crossed to his side of the little key. Birds flew up, screeching. Durell wondered where the girls had gone. If they'd used a boat, that might be useful, assuming they were still in the area. But he didn't hear either a motor or any plash of oars.

  He waited.

  The heat closed in, suffocatingly, and the mosquitoes had a field day. He sweated. He dried his palms on his thighs and kept the tough Httle string of vine ready.

  The man finally came out on his side of the island and moved toward him, his head alert, his eyes sliding back and forth. He was a young Chinese, and had a hard look about him. His black hair was thick, and he had his gun cradled in the crook of his elbow, finger on the trigger. He wore an open-necked short-sleeved shirt and khaki slacks and sneakers wet with mud. His arms were muscular. Durell did not move, letting the insects feed freely on his face and hands.

  The Chinese was not very good in this terrain. No doubt he was more accustomed to operating in the dark alleys of Singapore's Chinatown. He came down the narrow beach, scanning the undergrowth, and passed within five paces of Durell.

  Durell took the loop of vine in both hands and stepped out of the mangrove behind him. At the last moment, the Chinese heard him, but too late to save himself. The vine closed around his throat and Durell drew it tight and the man choked and struggled and kicked and dropped his weight, risking a broken neck for himself. Durell let him drop, and the man's gun fell on the coral and slipped into the oozy, muddy water. Durell kicked it all the way in, and hauled tighter. The Chinese smelled of garUc and fish. His dark hair flew as he jerked his head to right and left. He almost got free by rolling violently toward the water. Durell stepped over his thrashing body, tightened the vine around his wrists, and knelt on the man's belly. It was hard and corrugated like a washboard. He slowly smiled down at the younger man.

  "Do you want to die?" he asked softly.

  The man's black, slanted eyes hated him.

  Durell said, "At half past three?"

  The other's eyes flickered in astonishment. The myth of the inscrutable Oriental wouldn't stand up with this one, Durell thought grimly. He relaxed his grip slightly, just enough to let him reply.

  "That was—yesterday—at five?"

  "Do you have Five Virtues?" Durell asked.

  "Truly they—are like—rubies."

  Durell looked at the inside of the man's left elbow. There was a tiny pattern of dark red, like a mole, but he knew it would be five tiny rubies. He turned his own arm to let the young Chinese see his own tattoo.

  "Your name?" Durell asked.

  "Lim Sing."

  "Your Tiger General?"

  "I am Mr. Han's secretary."

  "He still rules the Five Rubies Society?"

  Lim Sing looked utterly stunned. "You are one of us?"

  "I am. Tell that to Mr. Han, when you see him. I'm going to let you go, Lim."

  "Truly, you are my brother."

  "We'll see." Durell took the corded vine from around Lim's neck. Lim Sing rubbed his throat and sat up and said, "Do not go to San Mirabel today. Let me notify Mr. Han that you are one of us, and therefore have a claim to our protection."

  "Fair enough."

  "And be careful when you leave here. We all have orders to kill you."

  Durell smiled. "But you are my brother."

  He reached his hidden car twenty minutes later. Linda Riddle sat in it. Somewhere, she had found slacks and a blouse, but she hadn't bothered with shoes. A ribbon bound her blond hair, which was still wet. Her young face looked changed. She looked vulnerable. She was alone, this time; her three friends were not in sight.

  "Oh, there you are," she said. "Did Lim hurt you?"

  "No. Were you worried?"

  Her eyes were different, too, as she regarded him. Apprehension, concern—something had happened to shake her confidence that love could solve all the problems of the world.

  "Let's get out of here," she said, her voice subdued.

  "Where are we going?"

  "I've changed my mmd about you. I don't want—I guess I need help. So I must trust you." She shivered. "I've decided to take you to see Harry and the painting. We all talked it over—the other girls and I." She shivered again.

  "What else is the matter, Linda?"

  "I'm so scared," she whispered.

  5

  Durell was careful to keep one pace to the right and behind the girl as she walked quickly down Duval Street. Her long hair, as bright as a waterfall and the color of daffodils, bounced and swung in rhythm with her determined stride. He felt conspicuous, but there was no one on the crowded sidewalks who could guess she was a billion dollars in bare feet. She swung a cerise hibiscus blossom in her left hand. He did not think they were either followed or watched, but he took all the usual precautions, and let no passerby get between them.

  The Conch Train, crowded with camera-festooned tourists, went by with the mechanical voice of the guide droning away at Key West's history. A sailor stopped and stared and whistled at Linda. Durell closed the gap between himself and the girl slightly.

  Just short of Mallory Square, the girl turned left into a narrow lane. The fences sagged, the Bahamian houses were old and worn and unpainted. A coconut palm leaned overhead. There were small art and antique shops, a few strolling tourists, a spate of Spanish from a Cuban family behind screened windows.

  Linda turned her bright face to him. "You will be nice to him?"

  "I'll try."

  "You look angry."

  "I am."

  "The world is meant for love."

  "So you think."

  "Did Lim hurt you?"

  "No."

  She stopped short. "You don't communicate much, do you, Sam?"

  " 'Communicate' is a word open to wide interpretation. It's often used to cover a multitude of human errors and omissions."

  "Do you think I'm immature?"

  "You're beautiful, rich, and foolish."

  "Nobody ever spoke to me like that," she said.

  "Then it's about time someone did."

  She bit her Hp. It was a ripe, luscious, kissable lip. Some man would be lucky some day, he thought. He sighed for his too-many years.

  The battered sign over the gate simply read, Harry's Here. He let the girl go in first. There was a narrow passage squeezed between two overgrown poisonous oleander bushes, then a little courtyard outlined by a low coral wall. A fountain tinkled. A huge old banyan tree grew in the center of the court. Beyond it was an old unpainted house with galleries reminiscent of the French Quarter in New Orleans. A walk led from a gate in the upper gallery rail and vanished into the branches of the big tree. A wooden ladder also ran up the gnarled trunk of the banyan. Leaning against the coral block wall of the courtyard were dozens of oil paintings, all of which made Durell wince.

  "Harry is always inspired," Linda said.

  "By what?" Durell asked painfully.

  The paintings were nightmares, without technique or discipline. Linda started to climb the slatted ladder nailed to the trunk of the tree. He appreciated her figure even more, and did not feel in the least avuncular toward her.

  A tree house had been built among the intricate webbing of the tree limbs. It was a large platform with a palm frond roof, and the walk from the gallery connected it to the house. Durell looked around for more paintings, but the platform was bare except for a litter of garbage—old paper bags, banana skins, fruit pulp, a scatter of empty fruit cans. Fires buzzed amorously. In the center of the platform, in a Yoga position with folded legs, sat Harry.

  He was no serene Buddha. He was a grossly fat young man, clad only in a dirty breechcloth. A pair of Ben Franklin glasses perched on the end of a blobby nose, and he had a Buffalo Bill goatee. His mouth was open, and he breathed deeply and slowly. He did not open his eyes as Linda and Durell crossed the platform toward him.

  "Isn't he beautiful?" Linda whispered.

  "Harry needs a bath," Durell said.

  "I mean his soul—his spir
it, his sense of love and unity with all mankind."

  Durell said quietly, "Harry isn't here, no matter what his business sign reads outside."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He's gone on a trip."

  Durell wasn't sure that the artist was conscious, but he would have given odds that Harry had taken a goodly dose of LSD and had transported himself to some never-never land. He looked at Linda and wondered if she had ever experimented with pot or acid, and recalled the tragedy of a friend's child, an early teen, whose mind had been shattered by the drug. Linda Riddle bit her lip. She stared down at the squatting figure of fat Harry.

  "Harry?" she whispered tentatively. Birds sang in the leafy green world of the tree house. "Harry, dear?"

  Harry didn't stir. Two flies walked over his face.

  "Harry, I've brought a friend. He wants the painting. I've told him about it. He wants to buy it back. I think it's all right. Can you hear me?"

  One fly walked into Harry's left nostril and backed out again. Durell sympathized with the fly. He noted there was wet red and yellow paint on Harry's pudgy fingers folded between his knees. There was just the faintest change in the lift and fall of Harry's blubbery, almost feminine chest. Durell looked at Harry's dirty feet, the soles of which were folded against the pale fleshy inner thighs of Harry's legs. Then he carefully placed his foot on one bent ankle and stepped down on it.

  Harry yelled with pain.

  Durell lifted his weight just before he broke the ankle.

  "Get up, you son of a bitch," he said.

  Harry's eyes were wide open now, ringed white with anguish. They were pale, a shadowed green, and they blazed with malevolence that was quickly concealed as if a curtain were dropped over them. Linda hadn't noticed. She threw her hibiscus at Durell, as if it were a missile, and the blossom dropped at his feet.

  "That was horrible!" she gasped.

  "Harry's here now," he said quietly. "Get up, Harry."

  "Who are you?" Harry groaned.

  "My name is Sam Durell. Does it mean anything?"

  "No. No."

  "Good. Now get up."

  "I—I don't think I can." Harry had a high, thin voice, like so many fat men. He was older than he had seemed at first. He clambered slowly to his feet, and he was bigger, too, and not all of his weight was blubber. He took off the half spectacles and carefully put them on the foam-rubber pad he had been seated on. Linda said, "Oh, Harry, I'm sorry."