Assignment The Girl in the Gondola Page 7

  He thought he heard a small noise inside as he touched the door with his fingertips. He could not identify the sound. The door was not locked. There was no light

  Violence came like a noiseless explosion as he slid inside. He took the dark form that hurtled at him on one hip, tumbling the man aside with a judo roll. Furniture splintered and crashed. There was another man, momentarily outlined in menacing size against the glass balcony door. He did not see Ursula.

  The man at the balcony window hesitated a moment too long. Durell was across the room, slamming into him with a driving blow that doubled him up. He chopped at a thick neck, sent the burly figure aside, and spun about to face the first man. But that opponent was already out the door and running. The second one crawled out on the balcony, groaning. Someone on the terrace began to call out in a querulous voice, asking what the trouble was. DurelPs temper abruptly evaporated; he did not want any public attention. He hauled the big man to his feet.

  "Who sent you?"

  "Signor?"

  The man did not speak English. He was a Venetian, a thug of no importance. Durell shoved him out on the balcony.

  "Where is the girl?" he asked in Italian.

  "The bedroom, signor. We only do what we are told, signor. Please, I beg of you—my wife and children—"

  Durell swung into the bedroom, snapped on the light Staggering footsteps behind him told him his captive was taking the opportunity to escape. He did not care. The man was only an unimportant hireling of Dinov's. He couldn't risk a public disturbance here. He let the man escape.

  He turned off the bedroom light almost at once, having seen all he wanted, and turned back to his living room. From the balcony, he noted that the scattered guests who had been seated on the canal-side terrace were all on their feet, staring up at his windows. He called down to them apologetically.

  "I am sorry. There was a small accident. It is of no importance."

  "Do you need help, signor?" a stout man asked.

  "No, no, grazie."

  There was a moment's doubt and hesitation down there; then their interest subsided. Durell drew a deep breath, lingered on the balcony long enough for them to watch him light a cigarette. The gesture disarmed them. They turned back to their food and drinks. He waited on the balcony until he was certain no one would come up and interfere, and then turned back into the bedroom.

  He did not turn on the light again. No need to. He had seen enough in the first glimpse.

  "Ursula?" he said gently.

  And: "Ursula, can you hear me?"

  She lay on the floor under an overturned chair, her knees drawn up to her breasts, her dark curly hair a cap over her bowed head. The room looked as if a rabid wildcat had clawed through it. Enough light seeped through from the terrace to define the insane trail of destruction—the spattered blood on the tiled floor, the larger pool at the foot of the bed, the next spattering that led to the girl's naked feet. Pictures had been pulled from the wall, and Durell's suitcase had been slashed open with a knife. He paid no attention to it. There was nothing he owned that could help anyone against him.

  The girl was another matter.

  He did not believe the other side went in for the senseless annihilation of flesh and blood; there had to be a reason for it.

  He dropped to one knee beside Ursula.

  She was breathing lightly and raggedly. Her face was battered, and a trickle of blood that came from one nostril alarmed him. He touched her pulse. It was thin, but steady.

  "Ursula?"

  "Let me—go . . ." she sighed. She huddled closer in a foetal ball she had made of her naked body. "Oh, please—"

  "It's all right. It's Durell here."

  "Caro Sam . . . ?"

  "That's right. Sam."

  She opened her eyes. They caught the light that came through the window and glittered strangely. He was not sure she knew him. Then she said: "Oh, how I hurt. . . ."

  "What did they do to you?"

  "Everything—they tried—"

  "What did they want?"

  "I—don't know—"

  "Ursula, don't lie now. I know all about you—just as you've always known about me."

  She closed her eyes. She was silent. He thought for a moment she had stopped breathing. He tried to loosen her arms from around her knees, to make her relax, but she clung to herself in subconscious desperation, resisting him.

  "I'll get a doctor," he said.

  "No—no, the pain goes away—"

  "The police, surely," he said deliberately.

  "No!" It came out stronger this time. Her eyes opened again, tawny, smoky. They looked at him as if he were the sole vestige of sanity left in a bloody, insane world. "You can take care of me, please, caro Sam."

  "I can't. I must leave."

  "No, don't go away!" It was enough to make her uncoil and seize him, to close her arms around him and wriggle her naked, battered body into his lap. There was a scent of gardenias in her disheveled hair. Gardenias and blood, he thought. Anger swept through him because of what had been done to her. She moaned and clung to him and he could not put her aside, whatever she was, whatever she might be.

  "Can you tell me why they did this to you?"

  "No ... I do not know . . . hold me tight. . . ."

  "Ursula, you must tell me!"

  "No."

  He forced her arms down, picked her up, and put her on the bed and covered her with the thin linen sheet. She whimpered and struggled to cling to him. He turned away.

  "Sam "

  He went to the telephone and called Zuccamella. His voice was controlled, hiding anger, biting on frustration. The ring was answered at once, as if the stout Italian cop had been waiting for him in his makeshift office. For one of the rare times Durell could remember, the man sounded concerned.

  "Signor Sam, are you all right?"

  "Just annoyed, that's all. I need some more help. Did you get anywhere with the questions I want answered?"

  "A little. But they can wait, I think. I have been trying to reach you. Shkoeder has flown to Athens, and your partner, Signor Harris, has followed. I have alerted your Athens people—Mr. Xanakias, in the Olympia Export Company. Is that correct?"

  "Yes, I know Xanakias."

  "Harris asked urgently that you follow at once, before he himself departed."

  "When is the next flight?"

  "In fifty minutes. I can send a car for you. But, Sam—"

  "Yes?"

  "There was a priority coded cable from Washington. There has been some liaison between your office and Moscow. You have some rather direct orders in the cable, to cooperate with Dinov on this matter—it's been given 4-A precedence, and it is directed that you phone Washington at once, on the scrambler. It seems some whisper of your problem has been blowing up dust among certain senators. You are to arrange an operation with Helmuth Dinov to recover the items promptly—"

  "Hold it," Durell said. He breathed angrily. "It can't be done, and you know it."

  "These are your orders from Washington, Sam—"

  "It won't work with Dinov. His part in it doesn't ring true; it's like a lead quarter. And he smells too much of the grave. I'll acknowledge Washington's cable when I can."

  Zuccamella was anguished. "But, Sam, it is priority—"

  "I'll send a chit acknowledging that you delivered the message. That lets you off the hook, old friend."

  Durell paused, standing in the darkened room with the telephone at his ear. His tall, somber image was reflected back to him from the mirror across the room. He could imagine the noise in Washington at this moment—generals, admirals and politicians arguing pro and con, some eager and starry-eyed at the thought of cooperation with the Russians; others dubious. It might have been fine if it were anyone but Dinov, he thought. He could not put his finger on what was wrong, but he preferred the risks of disobedience over going ahead with the cabled orders.

  "Sam? Sam, are you there?" Zuccamella asked.

  "Yes. Tell Washington
their message was duly received and noted. And here is what I want you to do," Durell said crisply. He had made his decision. His instructions were terse: he asked Zuccamella to come in person and take over in his rooms with the problem of Ursula. "She's been badly beaten, and I must know why Dinov is afraid of her. I don't think he did this just to throw me off balance."

  "Will you call Washington on the scrambler, please?"

  "No. Not yet, anyway."

  "You must not indulge in anger. It is too dangerous."

  "Just the same, I want you to bring a doctor for the girl and hold her in custody—house arrest here might be arranged, I think—and find out wha she really is and where she fits into any of this."

  "Have you thought of the chance that a woman might have killed Pollini? She was his little—ah, protege, remember."

  "I remember. I haven't had a chance to discuss it with her. She's in bad shape—faking a bit, but bad enough. It will be up to you to get the information we need out of her."

  "I understand. Give me five minutes."

  "I'll be waiting," Durell said.

  He put down the telephone and stared with moody eyes at the battered figure of the girl on his bed.

  Chapter Nine

  Athens was bathed in moonlight. Durell slept lightly on the brief flight, and landed at the airport shortly after one o'clock in the morning. There were only a few passengers on the plane, and in the short time Zuccamella had, they were checked out and none seemed to be of any concern. He chose a seat in the back, alone. He knew the value of snatching any moment's rest when on an assignment; he awoke at once, refreshed, as the plane circled over the Acropolis, gleaming white in the cloudless, moonlit night sky.

  Harry Harris met him, still wearing his shapeless Borsa-lino hat. The redheaded man stood out among the sleepy knot of travelers and eased Durell's way through the routine customs check. Xanakias waited in a battered Chevrolet outside the airport building. A cool wind blew from the Aegean and the ancient island of Salamis, where Greek and Persian fought under the eyes of Xerxes, king of kings. From the plane, Durell had seen the shipping in the Piraeus, che perfection of the Theseus temple, the sprawling, modern city of Athens, the rugged lift of mountains whose marble had gone into the sculptured glories of the ancient city. He loved Athens, but rarely had occasion to work here.

  Harris looked tired, the corners of his eyes webbed with fatigue. As they got into the battered car at the airport, he said, "I don't know what happened, Cajun, but you might just as well hear the worst. Xanakias went by the book, but Shkoeder gave us the slip, somehow."

  Xanakias coughed. "He had some professional help, I think, that we did not expect."

  Xanakias was a slender man with a gentle, round face, thick black hair and a huge black handlebar moustache. He wore a rumpled seersucker suit and a dark string necktie slewed slightly under the exaggerated points of his silk collar. His large, liquid eyes were solemn; his accent was utterly abominable. Durell knew he had been a guerilla fighter in the touch-and-go days, when the Communist hill fighters tried to drag Greece behind the Iron Curtain, after the Nazi defeat. His mild manner concealed an indomitable hatred for all enemies of freedom.

  He was in Greek counter-intelligence, and like Zucca-mella in Venice, a liaison man with NATO security; he could command a number of competent agents in an emergency. Durell had no doubt that Xanakias knew all about the CIA station in Athens, although the Greek cop was always too diplomatic to intimate as much. Xanakias had a big, whitewashed house in the suburbs overlooking Phaleron and a stout wife and six alert, bright-eyed children who filled the house with joy and laughter. He drove the car with a tight, controlled abandon, heading into the boulevards of the sleeping city. Traffic was light, and the Chevrolet purred with concealed power in its oversized, special engine.

  "It is good to see you again, Mr. Durell," Xanakias said. "I am sorry about the Albanian. We picked him up at the airport two hours ago and had an easy time trailing him to a house in Pandrossu, the antique district. First he bought a bottle of Maurodaphni wine at a neighborhood taverna, but he did not establish any contact there; we are still checking, however. Next Shkoeder went to a shop nearby that is known as a meeting place for other Albanian exiles in Athens. The owner of this antiquities shop, a man named Mastrota, is known to us as a leader of these Albanians. It seems that Shkoeder went straight to him—and then got away in a car, through a back alley." Xanakias shrugged. "It was a mistake on our part. We did not think he could get a car in that neighborhood. It was totally unexpected. We have a description of the auto, of course, and naturally it is being sought at this moment."

  "Have you talked to this Mastrota, this shopkeeper?"

  "Not yet. I waited for your decision, since our quarry obviously is not in that trap now."

  "I've checked you into the Grande Bretagne, Sam," Harris said wearily.

  "Later," Durell said. "We need Shkoeder, and we need him fast. And Dinov, I think, wants him worse than we do. I have the feeling Dinov will soon show up here, too."

  "I suggest we go to the antique shop, then," Xanakias said. "My men are still there. We will talk to Mastrota."

  "Good." Durell paused. "Are there any more flights due from Venice tonight?"

  "One plane. It lands at 4:17 a.m."

  "Get some men to meet it, please."

  "It's been arranged," Harris said. He looked at Xanakias. "Cajun, there's been another urgent message for you from Washington. They want you to contact them by telephone scrambler immediately." Harris looked apprehensive. "It's the second request, they say."

  Durell nodded. "They want us to work with Dinov."

  "So?"

  "So I won't."

  "Cajun, you just can't ignore the demand for a report—"

  "I'll take my chances with official reprimands," Durell said glumly. "It just doesn't smell right to me, is all."

  Xanakias put in smoothly: "I have heard of this Dinov. I would like to meet this mythical horror, myself."

  "He's not mythical. He's very much in the flesh—like a nasty thorn."

  Zanakias laughed under his huge moustache. "But thorns can be plucked out."

  "But they can be painful," Harris said glumly.

  Twenty minutes later, their car nosed into a twisted alley of old Athens. The leaning, whitewashed buildings smelled of the sea, and the atmosphere was heavy with old cooking, spices and dust. It was an area of small shops and flats with balconies overhanging the narrow way. From a corner taverna came blaring folk music and the thump of men dancing together. As the car halted, the doors of the taverna burst open, yielding a glimpse of a decor consisting of huge wine casks, posters advertising Metaxa brandy, a crowded bar jammed with shirt-sleeved dock workers. Two of the drunken, burly men came staggering out, arms around each other's shoulders, and stepped toward them singing and waving in their free hands empty bottles of licorice-flavored ouzo. Their song ended quietly as Xanakias stepped from the Chevrolet and spoke to them. They replied in a quick burst of unintelligible Greek.

  Xanakias turned back to Durell.

  "Mastrota, the shop owner, tried to leave the room he sleeps in, behind the antique shop. But these men were posted in the alley, and when Mastrota saw them, he stepped back and shut the door. He is still inside. We know Shkoeder got out the back way, however; he had help, was given a car. He could not have eluded our surveillance otherwise. Come with me."

  Xanakias' two burly men needed no instructions. Arm in arm, singing lustily, they wavered and staggered around the corner of the dark, narrow street and vanished into the alley. Durell stepped to the sidewalk and looked at the dusty window of the antique shop. A wax dummy in there wore a Skanderbeg jacket, reflecting the costume of Albania's national hero who, in the fifteenth century, fought and defeated the Turks in twenty-one pitched battles. Skanderbeg, whose true name had been George Castriota, was since his death in 1467, an emblem of Albanian resistance to tyranny. Perhaps, Durell thought, it was appropriate that this shop, a meeti
ng place for Albanian exiles today, should display such a reminder of a brave past.

  The street light shone on faded, dusty etchings of the romantic ruins of Kruya and Elbasan in ornate frames. There were no lights inside the shop. Durell wondered if the proprietor were still hiding back there in the dark. There was no more pitiful plight, he thought, than that of the homeless exiles throughout the world, driven from their native lands by cruelty and persecution, living on crusts of charity and crumbs of hope in strange cities, terrified of their political enemies and fearful of the police of their host countries.

  In the shop window there were a few pieces of antique marble, trays of old signet rings, clay lamps and artifacts that were the dusty remnants of ancient glories in Greece. The glass was fly-specked and dirty. Yet through the heavy scents that filled the narrow street of the waterfront neighborhood came the surprising perfume of roses in bloom somewhere.

  Xanakias produced a key and quietly inserted it into the door lock.

  "I will go first, please. These people are most temperamental in these situations. We have known this place to be a rallying point of Albanian refugees, and we have not molested the poor devils, naturally. But now I must exact a payment for our tolerance." He brushed his huge black moustache. "It is very sad. They will try to establish another secret headquarters, and we will locate it and go through our surveillance system all over again."

  With Xanakias in the lead and Durell and Harris hard on his heels, they moved inside with swift, silent efficiency. Durell glimpsed dusty showcases filled with bric-a-brac, a tall marble nude in a corner, a beaded curtain in the rear. Xanakias slid like a shadow for the curtain, flicked it aside with a stiff forefinger, and reached for a light switch in the room beyond. His burst of Greek came with leashed violence.

  The harsh glare of an unshaded bulb revealed a disreputable one-room apartment with an unmade cot, a greasy gas stove, a battered armchair covered in mouse-colored mohair, and a corner closet created by stringing a sheet on a line from wall to wall. Xanakias had a gun in his hand and uttered a sharp order. Durell went to the back door, unlocked it, and looked out. The alley looked black and lonesome. The backs of the houses leaned toward each other overhead, balconies almost touching. The dripping tumble of roses gave off their scent from here. Xanakias' two men covered the alley at either end, and they were silent now, sober, big, and dangerous.