Assignment Nuclear Nude Page 6

  "Either way, friend, you die," he said quietly.

  He heard Linda cry out as she saw his gun, and Anna-Lise gasped, and Deakin twisted on his jump seat behind him to see what was going on. Chu'Ko only tried to speed up again, and Durell flipped the gun about and slammed it against the man's head. At the same moment, he grabbed at the wheel with his left hand. Little Pan screamed as the Chinese driver toppled sideways. Somehow, Chu'Ko's elbow hit the door handle and the door swung open as the car jolted out of the road ruts. Chu'Ko fell out, head first, legs flailing in the dust. Durell had no time to see what happened to him then. He fought the wild wheel as trees and shrubs and a ditch flashed and gyrated before the windshield. He got his left foot on the brake pedal and slid partially behind the wheel. Something hit him lightly on the back of his head and he realized that Pan was striking at him in hysteria. The big car hit something—he never saw what—and a branch crashed down on the hood. The wild foliage made a screen that prevented him from seeing where they were going. He hit the brake harder, the heavy sedan careened, lifted high on the left side, and came down with a smashing jolt. Glass shattered. Metal screeched. A long series of jolts followed. The fallen branch was torn away from the windshield. There was one more crash, and abruptly the careening sedan came to a halt.

  A bird called in raucous derision. A plume of steam hissed from the engine. A wheel whined, still spinning, freed by the canted position of the car.

  Durell let out a long breath and eased himself out through the opening left by the amputated front door. He was not aware of any injuries to himself, but there was a trembling all through his body as his nerves released the tension of the past few moments.

  He looked back the way they had come. A trail of broken brush and shattered sapUngs marked their wild plunge off the road. A breeze stirred the torn and wrecked foHage. He couldn't see the road, but he did not think they were far from it. Neither could he see Chu'Ko's body.

  He turned back to the car.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  Deakin had gone off his jump seat and cracked his head against something. A thin trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. He groped about and found his glasses behind Anna-Lise's feet and put them on, blinking.

  "What was that all about?" He looked badly shaken.

  "Reception committee," Durell said curtly. "And not from our side."

  Pan spoke in her small, deUcate voice. "Did you kill that driver, Mr. Durell?"

  "I don't know. Did you know him?"

  "No."

  "Sure?"

  "I didn't know him."

  The three girls and Deakin were bruised and confused, but there were no serious injuries. Durell walked back along the path toward the road. The bird sang mockingly after him. The car was a useless wreck. They would have to walk out, and this would take time, and he didn't know how much time they had.

  He found Chu'Ko where the Chinese had fallen from the speeding car. The man's neck was broken. It didn't bother Durell one way or the other.

  Anna-Lise von Golz came striding after him. Her tall, full figure looked aggressive. "Do you mind giving me an explanation of all this?"

  He looked at her objectively. "Yes, I do mind. Go call the others. We don't have any time to waste here. There may be some unfriendly people looking for us soon."

  "How could they know about us?"

  "They know."

  "Our fathers certainly wouldn't try to kill us!"

  "Not your fathers. Let's go."

  It was Pan who suggested the New World Amusement Park as a place in which to lose themselves and find a telephone. Durell hurried his charges back along the secondary road to the highway that fed into River Valley Road. The afternoon was growing late, but there were still some hours of daylight left.

  A taxi went by, and when Durell signaled, they were lucky enough to have the driver stop for them. In less than ten minutes, they were dropped off at the entrance to the park.

  The girls looked sulky, disheveled, and tired. Denis was remote, licking the wounds inflicted by Linda's hostility. Durell decided it wasn't his business to play nursemaid, since he had been literally blackmailed by Linda into I taking them halfway around the world with him. He I looked for a telephone amid the noise, crowds, smells, and I Ughts of the sprawling attractions. Just about every element and blend of Singaporean life was represented on the grounds here—Malays from the paddy fields and kam-pongSy Indians in the island's professions and businesses, Chinese merchants and Hakkas from former tin-mining enterprises, as well as every blend of religion and East Asian language and costume—all ebbed and flowed in the dust and heat and sun glare of the varied attractions.

  Food stalls offered samples of Peking duck, noodles, dumplings, Ceylonese curries, kebabs and chicken. The little shacks provided culinary miracles. The tongues of Malay, Chinese, English and Tamil filled the air. Durell's three girls lost their sulkiness and began to look interested. The wailing of a Chinese singer clashed with the booming of gongs and cymbals from two male Balinese dancers who fought a mock battle-dance with flashing swords and homicidal tridents. A young Arab slid between two Buddhist monks in saffron robes and tried to sell Durell some lottery tickets on the races. Durell waved the boy off and turned to Denis Deakin.

  "Keep the girls here. Don't leave under any circumstances until I get back."

  Denis nodded, but seemed doubtful about his ability to get the three girls to obey. Durell found a Hindu restaurant, asked for the telephone, and called K Section's Control at the Great China Bazaar. In less than a minute, he was talking to Levy Liscomb.

  "Broker Two," he said, identifying himself. "Levy, how did they get onto me so fast?"

  Liscomb was startled. "Cajun, what happened? I've been waiting twenty minutes "

  "They pulled strike one," Durell said. "Would you have a driver named Chu'Ko Liang?"

  "Yes, I sent him "

  "He's dead. Accident. We were being snatched. He was under orders to take us."

  "But who ?"

  "I'm asking you, Levy."

  "There's been no leak here, Cajun, I swear."

  Durell was angry. "If Madame Hung is in this, we're

  playing in the majors. I was expected. Chu'Ko was bought. Who could do it?"

  "I don't know, Sam." Levy sounded very worried. *'Where are you now?"

  Durell told him. "It could be that Mr. Han is playing his own game. Or any of them, making a strike on their own. The stakes are high enough for thieves to fall out, certainly. Are Riddle and the others in his kongsi here in Singapore?"

  "Yes. The whole cartel enterprise arrived shortly before you did. Their own private jet liner. Von Golz, Fazil, Han, Riddle. Yes."

  "Where are they staying?"

  "Cajun, don't try to tackle them on your own. They're too rich and powerful "

  "They're in it, so I can't stay clear. I'm not sure if the painting was shipped out of Cuba under their control, or Madame Hung's. Since the three daughters were being snatched with me, I'm inclined to doubt it was one of them. That would leave Madame Hung. But it's time I talked to those nabobs. Where are they, Levy?"

  "Just outside of Singapore, to the east. It's Han's place, on the beach toward Chongi." Liscomb gave him detailed instructions. "But you'll never get inside, Sam, if they don't want to see you. Wait for me."

  "You hold down the office, Levy. Give me two hours."

  "Cajun ?"

  Durell hung up.

  Half an hour later, he stood with his feet slightly spread, facing the four wealthiest men in the world. The girls had given him little trouble when he sent them off to their reserved hotel suite in downtown Singapore. He didn't think anybody would trouble them. Nor was there any sign of police activity because of the auto wreck. The body of Chu'Ko might be a long time in the brush before it was discovered.

  Durell felt hot and tired and disheveled as he confronted the four men. The house was large and airy behind its compound wall, facing the prevailing breeze that blew off
the calm green sea. The breeze always tempered Singapore's tropical climate. There had been the usual brief late-afternoon shower while riding here in a trishaw, but the lowering afternoon sun shone again now over the calm, island-dotted sea to the south and west. Malay servants in crisp white jackets had ushered Durell inside with the expected objections. A Chinese maid brought him a drink on a side veranda open to a lush and formal tropical garden. Bombay chairs and tables stood about, and a fine Chinese T'ang vase stood beside the wide, open doors. Durell was not enough of an expert to be assured of the ceramic's authenticity, but he saw no reason to doubt its enormous value. Mr. Han, like the others, was a noted art collector. The house exuded wealth, taste, and a quiet sense of immutable power.

  The bourbon and soda was strong. As the Chinese maid smiled and bowed out, the four men came in, all their attitudes aggressive and angry. Riddle led the way with his usual impetuous charge, his cropped gray head lowered like a bull's. The others, whom Durell had not seen except for their dossier photos, were hard on the American's heels. The last to come in was Mr. Fazil, Ryana's father— a small, olive-skinned man in a light gray suit that matched the pallor under his face. He had a black, luxuriant Turkish moustache that seemed too big for his small features, and he twisted in his nervous fingers a fine string of amber beads that coiled and slipped endlessly over and under his palm. His large, liquid eyes were haunted.

  Their individual reactions as they halted before him was interesting, Durell thought. Riddle was as stolid and powerful as before. Mr. Han, a thin, wispy twentieth-century mandarin, was calm and neat and courteous, a small septuagenarian who managed to convey the feeling that he commanded hosts of bannermen who would come with arms at a simple nod of his graybearded head. Von Golz was stout, wheezy, and perspiring. The German had iron-gray hair cUpped close to his round skull, and he wore a black suit over his pompous girth. The suit was too heavy for Singapore's climate. His heavy jowls overlapped his formal white collar, and from under his winged gray brows, the eyes that regarded Durell were'as cold and predatory as those of a hawk.

  Riddle was the ostensible spokesman for the group, and 1 while his voice promptly grated threats, disavowals, and a 1 harsh denial of Durell's "interference with the rights of simple, private citizens"—with no query as to the welfare of his daughter or her friends—Durell kept his attention on Fazil. The Turk looked like a man who had just gazed into the depths of hell. His mouth shook and there was a shine of sweat on his dark, aristocratic features. His thin, fine hands worked his string of amber beads with poorly suppressed hysteria.

  "Mr. Fazil!" Durell's voice cut through Riddle's tirade of abuse like a brief explosion. Riddle was abruptly silent, his mouth open as he turned his head to look at his Turkish partner. "Mr. Fazil," Durell said, more softly, "do you know what has happened to your daughter, Ry-ana?"

  "No. But I have been inquiring." The Turk's voice was too tight. His English was Oxonian. "No one can tell me why she did not come here with the other girls. If you know "

  "Ryana was a lovely, if misguided, youngster," Durell said quietly.

  "Yes, she is the delight of my " Fazil halted. He stood up from his chair, then was abruptly still. Even his nervous fingers twined around his prayer beads were motionless. Then he opened and closed his mouth. His small frame began to shake as if struck by a sudden gust of wind. ''Was, you said?"

  "She is dead. She was murdered in Key West."

  The elegant little Turk swallowed and turned to his three companions. He lifted a hand, dropped it, and swallowed again. "Riddle, you did not tell me—"

  "I didn't know," Riddle growled. "I'm sorry."

  "He's lying," Durell put in. "He knew, and that's why he rushed you all here. That's why he fired me, after being so anxious to hire me. It got too big for you, didn't it, Riddle? And Han offered you more expert help—or so he claimed—in order to keep the U.S. government out of it. Your fellow conspirators here insisted you'd made a mistake, trying to handle the matter with just me as your aide."

  "You son of a bitch," Riddle grated. "I sure enough made a mistake, trying to use you. We all agreed on it, down at San Mirabel. So I tossed you off the payroll, and none of this is your business now, and I'll have your pelt nailed to the wall for interfering "

  "You hired me," Durell said. "You're clever. Riddle. But you forgot a termination clause in our agreement. I'm going to get Deakin's formula back. But you all should know, right now, that however safe you might feel now, your daughters are your vulnerable spot. They're in danger. The first one, Ryana, has already paid some of the price you'll be charged for the formula. She's been killed

  "How?" Fazil looked agonized. "Please, tell me."

  "Riddle can tell you all about it. He probably knows more details than I. Or maybe you should ask—Mr. Han."

  The elderly Chinese smiled slightly and touched his wispy beard, but nothing changed in his wise old eyes. Von Golz cleared his throat with a loud, uncouth rasp. Looking at the German, Durell thought, He knew about the murders, too. Durell said flatly, "I just came here to warn you, gentlemen. Your daughters are dead set against the monopoly you're trying to create. They'll fight you. Linda, Anna-Lise, Pan—maybe they are young and inexperienced, but they won't give up. Even if you win the world, you're going to lose your children."

  There was a long moment's silence. The wide, luxurious veranda was turning dark with evening shadows. A parrot squawked somewhere, and in the garden there was a

  momentary explosion of color as a host of Java sparrows took alarm in their ornate bamboo cage. A young Chinese male servant hurried in, paused, caught Mr. Han's eye, and backed out, his face twisted with alarm. Durell was quite satisfied, certain of the effect he had created. Let the crooks fight among themselves now, he thought. He threw one more bone for them to quarrel over.

  "I'm not sure when the painting and the Deakin formula will arrive here from Key West and Cuba. Perhaps you gentlemen had it traced with your private squads of snoopers around the world. Maybe one of you arranged to buy it from Harry, the artist, after Linda gave it to him. But it's my guess the painting, whoever stole it and shipped it, will get here some time within the next forty-eight hours. It isn't here yet, or none of you would be waiting, still satisfied with your unholy alliance against the rest of the world. But when it does come here, you can all rest assured that none of you will ever see it. One of you, of course, has higher hopes than the others. But Deakin's formula is going back to the States, where it belongs."

  "It belongs to me!" Riddle snapped. "Deakin worked for me, and his contract stipulates that his research discoveries belong to my corporation "

  "It's going to Washington," Durell said quietly. "That's the only thing you can be sure of."

  "I warned you not to interfere, Durell. I discharged you "

  "Why?" Durell asked.

  "What?"

  "Simple question. Why, after pulling all kinds of political strings in Washington for someone like me, did you suddenly change your mind about using me? You pulled me into it. I'm staying in it. And I mean to find out who killed Ryana Fazil, too. . .. Mr. Han?"

  The old Chinese lifted his head slightly, smiled, and touched his thin gray beard. "Mr. Durell, I have the utmost respect for you," he said. "I listen to your words and I am convinced they convey wisdom to this senile and rebellious old ear. Therefore I am prepared to discuss the matter with you without anger or fear. What do you truly want?"

  "First, I want Lim Sing," Durell said.

  "I do not understand that request."

  "Your hoodlum. Your trigger man. Where is he? He was on the Florida keys. Where is he now?"

  "I cannot say."

  "He knows about Ryana and the painting and just who got it from Harry, back in Key West. He's on your payroll." Durell paused. "His value is that of five rubies. And so is mine."

  The wrinkled face of Mr. Han, as yellow as old ivory, changed only a little. Before the Chinese could reply, however. Von Golz assaulted the air with a barrage
of guttural German curses.

  "We are businessmen, Herr Durell, and your government cannot legitimately interfere with our operations here or in the United States. What Mr. Riddle is prepared to share with us is purely an industrial exploitation of certain research developments in which you cannot legally interfere."

  "Your opponents," Durell said, "are not concerned with the law as you know it. My job is to keep that painting and the data on its canvas from getting to Peking. I think one of you four men is double-crossing the others." He paused and looked at the shaken FazU. "One of you has already paid a high price for this treachery. I would suggest you think long and deeply about it And if one of you can do so, answer this single question. Who among you bought the painting from Harry the artist? And who knows just how it is destined to arrive here in Singapore?"

  He waited. The four men turned closed faces toward him. Then, after a moment, he said, "Think of the price of treachery, gentlemen. I am prepared to help you recover the painting, on certain conditions. We can discuss the terms when the one who has betrayed the others comes to realize that he will win nothing but his death because of what he has done."

  Again there was no answer. The faces that regarded him were blank, the eyes hooded, cautious, inimical. Dureli shrugged. He had sown his seeds of discontent, and was ready to go. When he stood up, in a thick silence, no one tried to stop him from leaving.

  8

  He heard the whooping sirens of fire engines when his trishaw was stopped in a traflfic jam two blocks irom the Great China Bazaar. Dureli got out and skirted the green lawns and manicured flower beds of the padang where the government offices were located and turned down a narrow street toward the waterfront. A P and O liner loomed there, white and luxurious, discharging tourists who were being greeted by a ceremonial lion dance. The smell of smoke was thick and acrid. Twilight darkened the horizons of the sea. He stepped over hoses, evaded an excited fireman who tried to keep him from proceeding, and stood for a moment watching K Section's Control offices bum lustily in the evening air. Strike two, he thought. He pushed forward through the gawking crowd and considered the low, two-story building where the firemen fought billowing smoke that poured from the bazaar windows. The windows of the upper floor, where Levy Liscomb's private offices and files would be, looked as if they had been blasted outward. The guess he made was for an incendiary botnb that started the blaze. The fire shot huge jets of sparks into the darkening twilight sky, exciting the crowd of spectators. The smoke looked thick and oily, and it seemed certain the place would be totally gutted. He wondered how Levy Liscomb could have been so careless as to let this happen, but that didn't matter now.