Assignment - Manchurian Doll (21 page)

Pride, and a desire for revenge he could see and taste. Egotism had demanded that he insist the Chinese hold back so he could spring the trap himself.

Durell’s only course was to go ahead, whatever the odds. He did not underestimate Omaru. To retreat would be to invite disaster, death. The boldest course was to plunge ahead toward his goal. Anything else was suicide.

He stepped out from the shelter of the rock and walked boldly up the inclined path toward the hut.

The wind buffeted him, the rain soaked through the quilted uniform he had taken from the Chinese sergeant. He did not get far without interference. He did not expect to.

One of Omaru’s men came out on the road, shouting something that was snatched away by the wind. A branch tom from a tree came flying through the air, twisting like a bat’s wing, and the man ducked, terror in his face. Durell approached casually, leaning into the wind. He wanted to run the rest of the way to the hut. With Omaru already inside, anything might be happening. But he paused at the sentry’s challenge.

The man, in civilian clothes, barked a command in Peiping Chinese, and Durell realized that in his stolen uniform, the other took him for one of the Chinese troopers.

“You do not belong here!” the man shouted. “You people have orders to stay clear of this area, sergeant!”

Durell moved so the rain drove into the other’s face, blinding him slightly. He was a Eurasian, small and compact, with a soaked trenchcoat and felt hat that was totally inadequate for this weather and terrain.

“I must see Omaru,” Durell called in Japanese, above the roar of the wind.

“What for? This is our job. You have no business—” “My lieutenant thinks you need help.”

“We’re all right.” The man waved his wet gun. “How did you get past Moteki? He should have stopped you.” “Something struck him—a falling branch,” Durell said. “All the devils of the night are at work against us.”

“That is true.” The man was squinting, trying to see Durell’s face. He said pompously, “But you must get out of here, sergeant. This is an intelligence operation.”

“When will you give the signal for us?” Durell ventured. “I don’t know anything about a signal. There’s some business about a red flare, if we need you. That’s all I know.”

“You’re sure you’ve got enough men?”

“Ten of us, but that’s enough, don’t worry. You—” The man broke oil as he came closer and peered at Durell’s face. Shock, alarm, and rage twisted his face as he realized how he had been tricked. He started to bring up his gun, but he was much too late.

Durell caught the wet, slippery barrel and twisted hard, up and over the man’s shoulder. The other screeched and twisted about, lost his footing, and stumbled a few blind steps, crouched over and off balance, from the path. A scream came from him as he slid from the path and down the slope to the left. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness down there. Shrubs and small trees on the cliffside thrashed in the wind, and Durell could not see how far the drop extended. He thought he heard the man’s cry down there, but in the noises of the storm, he could not be sure.

He straightened and started toward the hut, then paused.

He had stepped fairly into the jaws of the trap now. It yawned widely, waiting to snatch him up in its grip. He did not delude himself with his success so far. Omaru was in the hut, his men surrounded this place, and he could not count on the bedlam and confusion of the storm to help him further.

Somehow he had to turn the trap upon those who had set it for him. There was no other hope.

He walked openly, sheltered by the wind and the white, lashing rain, bending into the force of the uproarious elements. His uniform protected him from the other watchers. The waterfall that came down the mountainside behind the hut had gone wild, filling the air with its din. He stepped suddenly into water and floundered desperately in a torrent that clutched avidly at his knees. In an instant he went down, and felt his shoulder slam into something dark and solid, and he snatched at it before the flood dragged him away and down the mountainside to the black sea below. He had caught the abutment of a small wooden bridge that spanned the normally placid stream.

Water slashed over his head and pulled hungrily at him. It took all his strength to cling to the abutment. His feet dug into the muddy bank of the flood, but the soil was loose and eroded and crumbled with each new grip he sought. Overhead, the little bridge shook and shuddered with the pressure of the water.

He saw that the main timbers spanning the gully were locked into place by means of crude wooden pegs driven into holes in the wooden anchor-block he clung to. Durell pulled himself out of the torrent inch by inch until he was safely out of the flood. The bridge was cleverly made, even though its trembling indicated weakness. He might put this to use, he decided. And with that thought, he searched impatiently for a stone, felt along the slippery timbers for the nearest locking peg, and began knocking it loose.

He worked with a sense of desperation as time slipped by. For the space of several blows the peg was adamant. Then he was helped by the shaking of the bridge itself as the vibration suddenly worked it loose. The leg slipped out of its hole for several inches. The timbers shook more violently. He left it as it was and found the second peg on the other side of the main timber and attacked it, too.

Five minutes later, as he stepped cautiously across the flooded stream, he knew the bridge stood precariously, ready to collapse at any sudden, new strain.

He went on toward the hut.

Rain burst in ahead of him when he kicked open the door. The oil lamp inside threatened to go out in the blast of heavy wind that preceded him. There were wavering shadows, a glimpse of the three people inside, frozen in shock at his sudden appearance.

Omaru had a machine pistol in his huge paw, and he looked monstrous and unnatural in a slick yellow poncho over his massive bulk. He was turned half toward the doorway, and his heavy brows lifted very slightly as Durell came in. He smiled and waggled the gun.

“Come in, come in,” he said. “Please close the door, Durell. I have been expecting you. Indeed, we have been waiting for you.”

Durell looked across the small, barren room at the two people covered by Omaru’s gun. Nadja stood tall and straight beside Colonel Kaminov. She looked different, proud and defiant, her eyes cleared of the haunting terrors that had burdened her. She held Kaminov’s hand in hers and smiled strangely.

Alexi Kaminov was not the spruce, handsome Russian officer Durell remembered from the Hungarian border incident, years ago. The man had aged, and his blond beard looked matted, and there was a hunted look in his eyes.

His clothing was ragged and dirty. He looked like a man pursued by demons.

Omaru’s voice was genial. “You men have met before, have you not? I believe it was in Europe, in ’59. A pity that your friendship brings you to this disaster.”

“Omaru,” Kaminov said bitterly, “I paid you well for your help. I gave you all I had.”

Omaru chuckled. “We are in a disillusioning business, are we not? Your superiors simply paid me more to keep you here, that is all. It is as simple as that. And it seems that everything has worked out well, after all. I have you and the girl and Durell—all of you here, on mainland soil, as arranged.”

“You are a fool,” Nadja said. Her voice cut through the sounds of the storm outside with sharp strength. “You could have earned much more for yourself, Omaru. But it is still not too late. Some arrangement can be made, I promise you.”

“Not now,” Omaru rumbled. “Your chance was lost.” “Listen to me,” Nadja insisted. Her face was pale and earnest. She still held Kaminov’s hand. She was tall, but the blond Russian was a giant beside her—a maimed and broken giant who still towered physically above everyone else in the hut. “Omaru, you still need lose nothing. Durell can easily guarantee payment if you let us off. In this weather, it could be explained without any trouble.”

“I once said,” Omaru began heavily, “that money was all-important to me. But this man Durell has injured me gravely, and I have found that I do have some pride, after all. I have decided to be quixotic about money this time, and take my personal pleasure instead.” He waved the pistol slightly. “You will all please leave ahead of me. There is a truck at the foot of the hill, and my men are all around the place. It would be suicide if you attempted to escape now.”

“Omaru,” Durell said sharply. “You have only one chance to live—and that is to help us to get out of here.”

The fat man turned his head. “You are bluffing. I know all about you. I know your reputation for gambling. A distressing trait in our business. I do not believe your threats. I know you are armed, and you will notice I have not asked you to discard your weapon. I expect you know too many tricks in pretending to disarm yourself, and I will not take the risk. But if you make any untoward move,

Durell, I shall shoot you at once. I would like to do that. My employers would be disappointed not to have you alive for a public trial, but they would understand.” Omaru’s voice hardened. “Now, all of you—we will leave this place at once. I will deal harshly with trickery. The girl goes last, at my side. Do you understand that, Colonel Kaminov?” The blond, bearded Russian nodded. “You must not hurt her.”

“That depends entirely on your behavior. Go ahead, now. Durell will be first. The girl comes with me.”

“Nadja—” Kaminov began.

“It is my fault,” the girl said quietly. “Do not worry, Alexi. It will be all right.”

“But you had a reasonably good life. I should not have come back into it and destroyed it. I feel that I saved you long ago, only to bring you misery now.”

“I would not want it any other way,” the girl said. Kaminov walked toward the door, limping heavily beside Durell. The wind shrieked outside, and made the oil lamp flicker and gutter out again. Black rain drenched them as they stepped out of the hut.

Omaru’s men came into sight, out of the roaring rain. They looked like a band of brigands, Durell thought, but each was armed with a rifle, and they were well disciplined. Omaru snapped complacent orders to several of them to return to the truck, and sent two more off in another direction to advise the Chinese military the operation was completed. Two others remained with Omaru, following with rifles ready. The path down to the bridge was in wet darkness. Durell saw an inquiring look in Kaminov’s eyes, as if the man wanted to say something, but he ignored it. The Russian could not help.

Durell’s main concern was for Nadja’s safety. Omaru kept his gun in her back, and the two men were close behind. Durell bent his head to shelter his eyes from the stinging wind. The air was filled with a sound like thunder, and small dark objects constantly whipped by. The wind had veered and was now blowing from offshore. He wondered about the
Okiku
. He could only hope that Tagashi and the trawler were weathering the storm and that they were not being blown too far off position.

He had taken only half a dozen steps down the path from the hut when the wind abruptly took possession of it. There came a ripping, crashing sound as the thatched roof was tom off and plucked away. It flew awkwardly, like some prehistoric airborne reptile, and smashed against the cliffside to disintegrate into a thousand pieces. Something slashed across Durell’s cheek, stinging and drawing blood. He heard Omaru shout a warning as he ducked and the wreckage went spinning down into the gorge below. Then, as the wind picked up the oil lantern in the exposed interior, bright flames suddenly shot up from the bamboo structure and fluttered and roared in the wind.

They all halted. In the brief surge of light, Durell saw Nadja’s face, pale and composed, as she saw the final destruction of the place that had haunted her dreams for so many years.

The rain pounded the fire out of existence in a matter of moments, A few sparks glowed briefly, and that was. all. The wind shrieked louder in triumph.

“Go on!” Omaru shouted.

Kaminov hesitated, half-turned. He saw the gun ready in Omaru’s hand, pointed at the girl, and he went on beside Durell. In another moment they came to the bridge.

A series of crude terraced steps in the path led down to it, and the spew of white flood water in the little gorge looked enormously swollen even in the few moments since Durell had crossed on his way to the hut. The bridge still stood, but it was canted slightly to the left, and in the gloom he could see it was swaying dangerously in the gush of water pouring down the hillside. Beyond the bridge, the stream shot far out into space to cascade down the mountain to the beach, far below and lost in the darkness.

Omaru paused. “One moment.”

Several more of Omaru’s men—three men, in all—had reluctantly gathered on the other side of the bridge, waiting. Omaru shouted to them to stay where they were and paused, his head lowered, considering the span. Suspicion was evident in the hunched attitude of his huge head and shoulders. The wind tore at his yellow slicker and made it flap like the wings of a sullen, predatory bird.

“Kaminov, you cross first,” Omaru decided.

“I must go with him,” Nadja protested. “He needs someone to lean on—his leg—”

“He goes alone. There will be no argument.”

The girl fell silent. The Russian shrugged and limped forward and showed no hesitation in crossing the rickety structure. Durell tried to see if the loose pins were still in their timbered sockets, but the shadows and the spray washed them from view. Kaminov clung to the rail with the one hand. The bridge creaked loudly, but that was all. He stood among Omaru’s men on the other side and waited.

“You next, Durell.”

‘You seem afraid, Omaru,” Durell said.

“I am merely cautious. Proceed, please.”

Durell stepped onto the bridge and felt it shudder precariously under his weight. If it collapsed, he knew he would be swept away in the white torrent under him, to be carried over the lip of the cliff and shot into space, falling hundreds of feet to the rocky shore below. Like Kaminov, he did not hesitate. There were six quick steps, which he tried to synchronize with the uneasy motion of the loose planking, and then he jumped to the solid path beyond. One of the waiting guards pushed him toward Kaminov. The Russian nodded, his bearded face glistening with the rain. He looked shaggy and awkward, leaning heavily on his good leg.