Assignment - Manchurian Doll (11 page)

And she loved him.

His missing leg, lost at Stalingrad, did not bother her. She felt it a privilege to know the human being behind his stern official facade. He was sensitive, opening for her the world of books, rousing her from numb shock to a wide-ranging curiosity about the whole world.

She loved him.

She had trembled at his nearness, clung to his hand as a refugee child, quaked under his gaze, wanted to give him all, everything. . . .

That summer, as they sat on a bench near the Moscow River, alongside the tables of chessplayers and the children and the military uniforms moving to and from the onion spires of the Kremlin, he had said:

“Nadja, you are good for me. You have helped me very much toward my decision.”

“What decision? How have I helped you?”

“By permitting me to love you.”

She had been struck dumb. She thought her heart had stopped. Then she stammered, “But you have never done— or said anything—”

“No, nothing. But still, everything. Do not try to understand. You have been taught discipline. There is no place for sentiment in our work. When you are assigned to a station, you will forget me.”

“Never, Alexi!” She had wept. “How could I?”

But he got up from the park bench and went away, his slight limp marking him in the crowd. She never saw him again. In the dormitory that night, they told her that he had been transferred to the Far East again. He never wrote to her.

She loved him, and he had said he loved her, but she never saw him again. . . .

“Explain it,” Omaru insisted. “Isome will not be patient. Explain ‘Pere Jacques.’ ”

“I cannot!” Her mind raced back and forth, caged in a trap she had fashioned for herself. She had saved her sanity once by forgetting it all. Now the demons stirred restlessly in their dark, shadowy caves, provoked by Omaru’s prodding words. She was afraid. “It—it hurts me.”

“How?”

“It is all so confused!” she whispered. “It is like a dream from long ago—”

“Something you once told Kaminov?”

“I don’t know!”

“You
must
know. He trusted his life to your knowing. Think! Pere Jacques! Those are the key words. Explain them.” She dissolved in tears and wailed like a child. One terror fought with another in her mind, the fears of yesterday and her dread of what Omaru might do. But the older fears were the greater. She did not dare unlock the door and let them out. She felt weak and exhausted, rolling her head monotonously from side to side. Omaru watched her with curiosity.

“Do you trust me?” he asked suddenly. “You do believe that Isome is your superior, do you not?”

“Yes, yes, I suspected it for some time, but—”

“She will kill you if you do not help us. She will regard you as a worse traitor than Kaminov.”

“I know I deserve it, I want to do my duty, but—”

“But?”

“I cannot, I’m
afraid
—”

She writhed in the chains that held her to the floor. Omaru loomed over her. His face was an evil mask, his eyes narrowed as he watched her, startled by her transformation. She hated him. She hated Isome. There could be no worse torture than these questions. She felt as if she were burning, she could almost hear the crackle of flames. . . .

. . . as the timbers fell from the burning mission hospital. The patients screamed, trapped in their beds, burning alive. The grenades burst, rifles cracked, she heard running feet. Women shrieked and were thrown to the compound earth and were raped where they fell.

Father! she thought. Father!

You could see the coast, the shimmering sea from the hilltop where the mission had stood.

She was a child, a half-woman, and he tried to stand between her and the grinning soldiers who advanced toward them. They clubbed him down and there was blood all over him and she ran, screaming, through the burning building, looking for the cellar entrance. Jacques was dead, his head was broken open, there was blood everywhere and the smell of sweat and panting bodies piling on top of her, tearing at her frock, tearing and ripping into her body. . .
.

. . . and she screamed and screamed as she looked up into Omaru’s waiting face.

He spoke to her as if from a great distance, and his bulk leaned over her in a curious stance. Her arm stung. There was a queer fire in her left arm, and she saw the glitter of a syringe in his pudgy fingers. He had injected something into her, moving so quickly that she had not even been forewarned.

It did not matter.

She had failed herself, her job, and Alexi.

She welcomed death.

The last thing she remembered was the sound of gongs.

Durell arrived at Omaru’s house a few minutes past midnight. Eliot Barnes came with him as far as the landing on the waterfront in Akijuro, where a taxi deposited them among other parked cars. Omaru’s island was a distant blur of light, a far aerie offshore. A boatman was hired to take him by launch from the mainland dock.

Tagashi had discovered Nadja’s escape first, when he returned from Akijuro after checking the CIA safe house there, in preparation for receiving Colonel Kaminov when he arrived. Tagashi’s eyes had gone blank, containing no special reproach.

“She cannot have been gone long,” Tagashi said. “Perhaps Yuki can tell us more, when she returns. The problem now is that Nadja Osmanovna will set off an alarm and most likely, Colonel Kaminov will be arrested in Manchuria, where he is hiding. She knows the place. We do not. The entire operation must be called off, Durell-san. It is regrettable.”

“We will cancel nothing,” Durell said flatly.

It was then that Yuki returned, subdued and disheveled by the pain of her broken nose. Yuki was suddenly a small child, weeping on Tagashi’s breast, her face swollen, her eyes humiliated. Her sobs were incoherent. Durell took her to the bath and gently washed her face, removing the clotted blood from around her nose and mouth. The cartilage showed a clean break, not as bad as he had first feared. The septums were clear, and she could breathe easily. It would mark her, but not drastically.

“I’ll tape it for you, Yuki. You’ll be fine.”

“Will I not be ugly now?” the girl sobbed.

“Not at all. It will hardly be noticed, once the swelling goes down. A few aspirins and a night’s sleep and you’ll be fine. Now stop crying and tell us what happened.”

“I am sorry,” Yuki whispered. She looked at Durell differently, without her previous hostility. She was docile in his hands. She told her story quickly, with bitter clarity, describing her last encounter with Nadja and the way the two Japanese gunmen had seized her.

“You’re sure they were not police?” Durell asked.

“They said they were. But these were very bad men.”

“You never saw them in the Tokyo Embassy?”

“Oh, no.” Her mouth shook. “I think they worked for Omaru-san.”

Durell looked at Tagashi. “Then we need not worry about the operation being aborted yet.”

Tagashi’s face went blank for a moment. He spoke softly. “Durell-san, Omaru is not to be trusted. He will torture the Russian girl, perhaps, to learn where Kaminov can be picked up. Or he will form an alliance with her to lure you into a trap over there, surely. In any case, how can we go on?”

Eliot Barnes said: “We may have to eat crow, but maybe we can still make a deal with Omaru, if he gets Nadja’s information.”

“Any deal,” Tagashi said reproachfully, “will only prepare a trap for Durell-san, however. It cannot be considered.”

Durell said: “I’m placing my bets on Nadja. I don’t think she’ll betray Kaminov to Omaru. Not immediately, anyway.”

“He will torture her. He will kill her.”

“Not if we get there and take her back in time.”

“It is impossible,” Tagashi said.

“We have to try,” Durell insisted.

They wasted no time. Eliot Barnes wanted to go with Durell to the island, but Durell decided it was a one-man operation. It was Omaru’s stronghold, and short of a raid in police strength, two men were no better than one. Eliot waited on the Akijuro dock as Durell was taken offshore in a hired launch.

It occurred to Durell, as he mounted the winding steps that led up to the brightly lighted house that was Omaru’s aerie, that the fruits of crime must taste sweet to the fat man, and bitter in the mouths of all the guests who did not dare refuse any of Omaru’s invitations. There was a guard on the island dock, but the man only pointed politely to the path up to the house, assuming that Durell was a belated guest. Still, he felt something like Daniel approaching the lion’s den.

He paused on an outer terrace to allow a small group of diplomats to pass by. A waitress in a red kimono and a high-piled gleaming coiffure pinned with elaborate ivory combs offered him a tray of cocktails. Durell shook his head, smiled, and considered his moves. The waitress walked on, beyond the high glass doors that revealed the crowded reception room, the formally dressed guests. A few drops of rain spattered on the terrace stones around him.

Music drifted down the steep, rocky slopes of the island and was snatched away by the rising wind. The rain fell lightly, as if uncertain whether to continue. Durell, standing like a shadow on the terrace, watched a group of guests taking their leave. Omaru was not at the door to bid them good night. Neither Omaru nor Isome, his wife, were among the people he could see through the big windows. His stomach muscles tightened slightly. They would be here, on the island, somewhere. This was Omaru’s headquarters for Kaiwa. Somewhere on the island was Nadja Osmanovna.

He began to explore, ignoring the public part of the big house, and followed a path that led up through dark pine woods toward the island’s summit.

He found the radio tower five minutes later, neatly camouflaged among the trees on the opposite slope. The aerial was cleverly intertwined with the branches overhead. Tracing the wire, he found a small path that led to a camouflaged steel door set into the rock wall nearby. Durell tested the door, found it locked, and turned back. The main house was not visible from here. Out at sea, he glimpsed the running lights of a ferry from Akijuro to the Tsugaru Strait, moving slowly in the rainy darkness.

The path circled the southern side of the island and forked, one branch leading to a flight of steps up an old stone watchtower. He glimpsed the tower just in time to step out of sight of the guard up there. The man was carrying a machine-pistol and smoking a cigarette. In the red glow as he inhaled, his cruel mouth and hollow cheeks looked disembodied in the darkness above Durell. Dim light shone on his weapon. Durell wondered how many others of Omaru’s men were posted at strategic points about the island. The place was a fortress, cleverly camouflaged, manned by armed men. He wondered if every step he had taken so far had been quietly observed and reported to Omaru, somewhere in this place.

He gave no sign he was aware of danger. The man on the watchtower seemed to deliberately avoid looking his way. Durell turned and walked on, slowly circling the island. A flight of wooden steps led upward through the rocky pine woods. He looked backward, but saw only the shadows of the trees. The sound of tumbling water came from ahead, and he saw the stream of a tiny waterfall cascading down the sheer cliffside to tumble into the sea. Small bridges and platforms had been artfully constructed around and across the stream. The spray from the waterfall wet his face as he crossed the footbridge under it.

The path ended in a small terrace planted with flowers. A stepping stone had been placed near the sheer rock of the cliff. Without pause, Durell put his foot on the stone and felt it turn under his weight. His balance teetered for a moment, threatening to drop him over the rock lip. Then a part of the cliff wall turned and a light shone out from the doorway carved in the stone. Durell did not hesitate. He stepped inside, accepting the silent, mechanical invitation, and found himself on a wooden platform. The door rumbled shut again and the light went out automatically before he could spot the switch.

He stepped quickly to one side, pulled his gun free, and held it ready. Then there came a second rumbling and the light flickered on again, a bulb in the smooth plastered ceiling of the tunnel; the switch was near his left hand. Then the cave door opened again.

He had been followed, as he had suspected. A small wiry figure was outlined for an instant against the white, gushing spray of the waterfall shielding the entrance. The man held his gun lifted, muzzle pointing upward.

Durell slammed the man’s arm up in a jolting arc, then got in under the gun and slashed his .38 across the hoodlum’s face. The gunman gave a gurgling cry and fell to his knees. His gun clattered on the stone floor. Durell picked it up and dragged the man inside, but then the automatic mechanism of the cave door took over and closed on the other’s legs and pinned them between the steel bulwark and the stone framing of the door. There came the brittle cracking of legs breaking. The man’s scream was brief, agonized. His eyes rolled and he fainted.

It was just as well, Durell thought.

The light in the tunnel stayed on, since the door was now jammed open. He turned and climbed up inside the pinnacle of volcanic rock that comprised Omaru’s headquarters.

It was a complete layout. Hidden deep in the core of the island itself, far under the lush villa flaunted to the public gaze, were storage rooms crammed with smuggled goods that ranged from typewriters to crates of rifles and pamphlets. Everything was clean, immaculate. A smell of seaweed filled the air as he explored the maze of corridors and rooms hollowed out of the rock, and now and then he felt the chill draught of the damp sea wind pouring in through some ventilating opening.

Five minutes later he found the steel, circular stairway to the top, installed in the smooth, black basalt tube of a volcanic chimney. In the dim, geological past, this had once been the canal through which molten rock had spewed forth to the top of the pinnacle to build up the island. The walls were cold now, polished and fused into a glasslike, shiny black surface. The steel stairway wound up through the natural channel and Durell followed it swiftly.