Assignment - Quayle Question (11 page)

“Hold it, Tomash’ta!” he called.

The figure whirled, started to bring up his rifle, paused. A look of confusion momentarily touched the man’s small, snarling face. Marcus appeared on the other side of him. Tomash’ta turned his head to right and left, looking for a way out. His face suddenly was bland. He raised his arms over his head, holding the rifle.

“Wait,” he said.

He began walking toward Durell, arms held high. Marcus yelled something. From behind him, he heard the sudden muffled sound of the boat engine being started. Durell felt torn in two directions. He wanted to go back to see what was happening to Deirdre and Henley. “Marcus! Take him!”

Tomash’ta swung toward Marcus, suddenly lowering his rifle and firing it at the DIA man. Marcus fell back as if kicked in the chest. Tomash’ta kept turning, bringing the gun lower, turning it toward Durell. Durell came down the beach in a long, running dive that hit the Japanese just above the knees. Tomash’ta went down like a bowling pin, but held on to his weapon. He came up with his round face plastered with sand. His eyes were gleaming, feral slits. He spat something in Japanese, tried to break free. His body was like a bundle of coiled wires. Durell glimpsed Marcus sitting up, his face convulsed with anger and pain. He was holding his right leg.

“You will die,” Tomash’ta hissed.

“And so will you.”

“But I am dedicated to death. I follow the tradition of the kamikaze warriors—”

Durell felt him slide from his grip. He hit the man as they both grappled, rising to their knees. It was like hitting spring steel. Tomash’ta grinned and kneed Durell in the stomach. Durell heaved the rifle out of reach and came down across the writhing Japanese, chopped at To-mash’ta’s throat, missed, felt the man wriggle out from under his weight, chopped again, caught the man on the side of the neck, and flipped his .38 around to drive it against Tomash’ta’s head.

“One move, Kokui. Just one.”

The man’s slanted black eyes were fanatic.

“You may kill me, if you wish.”

“Yes. You’ve killed plenty of others.”

“I am ready to die.”

“Not yet. Not this easily. Get up.”

“Kill me!”

Durell drove his knee into the man’s groin, putting all his weight into it. Tomash’ta’s breath came out with a thin hissing sound. His big teeth gleamed in the fading light. Durell called, “Marcus?”

“I’m all right,” Marcus called back heavily.

“Can you walk?”

“Reckon so.”

“Go see what’s happening back on the boat.”

“I want Tomash’ta. That son of a bitch—”

“The boat, Marcus.”

Durell got carefully to his feet. He did not take his eyes off the Japanese for a moment. Tomash’ta lay on his back on the sand, his thick hair fallen across one side of his face. The man wore a gray sweat-suit and heavy boat shoes trimmed with blue stripes.

“Stand up.”

The man said something in a quick spate of Japanese that Durell understood only too well. He hit Tomash’ta across the side of the face with his gun, and realized too late that the man had deliberately incited him to the act. Tomash’ta staggered, then whirled and came up with a long, leaping kick that caught Durell just under the rib-cage. He went backward, saw Tomash’ta lunge for the rifle, came up and dived to intercept him. He could not catch his breath. A desperate ache flashed up through his chest and he heard his breath whistle through his teeth. Marcus was gone, hobbling out of sight toward the boat channel. He staggered, managed to stamp his boot on Tomash’ta’s reaching hand. Tomash’ta yanked his hand free through the yielding sand, spun around, pirouetting like a dancer, and came up with a wide-bladed knife that gleamed in the fading light. The blade flashed like a serpent’s tongue. Tomash’ta’s grin was crooked and unnatural.

“Now you must kill me,” the man said.

“Are you so anxious to die?”

“Dying is my business. I will fulfill my oath.”

“To Eli Plowman? He couldn’t care less.”

Tomash’ta danced around him, making Durell turn his back to the sea. “Go ahead, pull the trigger, CIA man.” They were alone on the empty beach. Marcus had vanished over the dunes. Sandpipers still ran along the curling, foam-edged water. A black-headed gull laughed at them as it belatedly winged westward.

Tomash’ta laughed, suddenly jumped for him, the broad blade slicing at Durell. Durell squeezed the trigger. The .38 bullet smashed into Tomash’ta’s kneecap and hurled the man sidewise. He shrieked with dismay. The knife flew aside and buried itself in the sand. Durell kicked it away. Tomash’ta writhed on the sand, clutching his shattered knee. Beads of sweat popped out on his round, brown face. Blood spread into the sand from the wound. Durell stood above him.

Tomash’ta gasped. “But you must not—it is not fair play—I did not expect—”

“I don’t play by the rules, Tomash’ta. Does it surprise you?”

Fear glimmered in Tomash’ta’s eyes, through his puzzlement and pain. “I think I am going to faint. It hurts so much—I will be crippled—”

“You’ll soon be dead,” Durell said. “You’ve killed too many men and women and children. You killed the Akuro family at the Spa in Virginia. And how many others, working for Eli?”

“I swore an oath—”

“Where is Plowman now?”

“Ah.”

“On this island?”

“He sent only me. I am very good at my work. He has most confidence in me.”

“You failed him this time. Did you get into the house over there?”

“No, it is impossible. You will see for yourself.”

Durell said quietly, “Do you want a bullet through the other knee?” There was a peculiar color in Tomash’ta’s face.

Tomash’ta said, “Yes, yes, I see what you are now. Plowman warned me about you. He said you are different. I believe you will do anything you say you will do.”

Durell waited.

Tomash’ta gasped. “Go see Plowman. He will tell you about Rufus Quayle. He is waiting for you, if I fail. That is what he told me. If I fail, I am to send you to him.” “Into another trap?”

Tomash’ta said, “You will learn that for yourself.”

“Tell me where to find him.”

“He is waiting for you—or for my report—at the Pacific Motel. Not the best place. Plowman shuns extravagance. He is at room fifty-six at the Pacific. He will laugh at you, Durell. He will not fail, as I have failed. He will kill you.”

“We’ll see. Who is Plowman working for?”

Tomash’ta grimaced. “He works for himself.”

“Don’t lie to me now.”

“I do not know who engaged him and his apparatus.” “But it’s all aimed at Rufus Quayle?”

“Yes.”

“You took his daughter, named Deborah? And her ex-husband, Martin Pentecost?”

“Possibly.”

“Where did you take them?”

“I have answered enough of your questions, Cajun. Enough to kill you.”

What happened then, in Durell’s eyes, was ugly. He said, “Who told you about me? Who gave you my name, Tomash’ta?”

“It was Plowman.”

“And who told Plowman I was in it?”

Tomash’ta laughed, and coughed. Dimly, Durell heard someone cry out, far behind him. The sounds came from where he had left Deirdre and the boat in the tidal channel. From the corner of his eye he saw Henley running along the top of the dune and then down across the beach, through the barrier of seagrape, toward him. The man’s tall figure looked awkward, but he moved with surprising speed. Tomash’ta began to laugh again, through gritted teeth.

“You lose the game, Durell.”

Henley paused about thirty yards away. He stood spread-legged and raised his gun, holding it in both hands to take careful aim.

The gun was aimed at Durell.

WHAT IS GOING ON OUT THERE?

“Intruders, sir.”

WHY WERE THEY NOT STOPPED?

“Your orders, sir. To see who they were and what they want. There seems to be two groups of them on the beach.”

DOING WHAT?

“Trying to kill each other, I think.”

SUCCESSFUL?

“Not yet, sir.”

ADJUST THE TV SCANNER, PLEASE.

“They seem to be some distance away yet, sir. The light is failing. And the evening mist is coming in, too.”

DAMN THE MIST. I WANT TO SEE THEM.

“I’m sorry.”

WHAT ABOUT MY NIECE?

“She’s been injured, sir.”

BADLY?

“Difficult to say, sir. Her attacker has come after the K Section man. Durell, you said his name was.”

SO SHE’S ALONE?

“On the boat, yes. Unconscious, at least.”

GOD DAMN IT TO HELL. IT’S TIME TO INTERFERE.

“I’ll send George and Robert.”

GO YOURSELF, YOU IDIOT. YOU ARE THE

BEST SHOT HERE. THEY SAW THE WARNINGS, DIDN’T THEY?

“Yes.”

THEN LET THEM TAKE THE CONSEQUENCES. “Do you want me to bring Durell here?”

AND THE YOUNG WOMAN. YES.

Durell threw himself aside as Henley fired. Perhaps it was the wind, or anxiety, that made the man miss. The slug tore past him and hit something with a dull slapping sound, and then he saw Henley suddenly rise on his toes, throwing his arms wide. A second later he heard the flat sound of the second shot from the looming, bulking house down the beach.

Henley sat down suddenly on the sand. He looked bewildered; it was the last conscious expression he made. The rifle shot had hit him low in the chest, bursting the aorta, causing an internal explosion of blood within the body cavity as the heart beat once or twice more before dying.

Durell turned. Tomash’ta was looking at Henley with wide eyes. Then the Japanese stared down at his stomach, where a great welling of blood showed through his gray jump-suit. Henley’s bullet, meant for Durell, had taken him in the belly.

Three men came running toward them from the stone house, still at some distance down the beach.

Durell knelt beside the Japanese.

“Tomash’ta, was Henley your informer?”

“Hai.’’

“Henley was one of Eli Plowman’s men?”

“Hai. You did not know?”

“I suspected. It had to be him or the other one. How long did Henley work for Plowman?”

“I do not—know.”

Durell got up and walked over to where Henley lay on his back on the beach. The man’s scholarly face looked pinched and white in death. His heavily framed glasses lay crookedly across his nose. Durell felt both anger and regret. Plowman bought men and their capacities as a woman visiting a supermarket for specialties. It had been a bad flaw in K Section, discovered only after his assignment in Sumatra, to give Eli such a free hand, such an autonomous position and a generous budget. There will be a wide cleanout after this, Durell thought. There were no files to show who worked for Plowman. It could be anybody. There was no way to know. He could not now consider himself safe, even among the men he knew best.

The three men coming at him from down the beach were quite close now. He saw their faces through the gray mist that rolled in from the ocean. They were armed with Uzi automatic rifles; his own gun was useless against them. They ran as if they knew what they were doing, as if they’d had combat training not long ago, perhaps in Vietnam. They wore their dark business suits as if they were uniforms.

They breathed with no difficulty at all, even after their long sprint from the distant house.

The first one said, “You all right, Mr. Durell?” He flapped an arm to his companions. “Go get his girl, Bob. I think she’s all right.”

“I’ll get her myself,” Durell said.

“Take it easy. Who was the fella I had to fade?”

“His name was Richard Henley. He worked for the government.”

“One of your people?”

“Not really.”

“I guess not. He was about to zap you, from what we could see. What about this Japanese fella?”

“Accidental death. He deserved a lot worse.”

“Right, right. We saw him hanging around. He got a bit of a bum on the wires. Had to give him a half jolt to warn him off. I figured he’d come back with insulated gloves, but I don’t see any on him.”

Durell turned and watched the young man named Bol come back over the dunes. Deirdre was with him, anc Robert was helping her; but when she saw Durell she shook off his arm and began running awkwardly towarc him. Behind them, limping, came the squat figure ol Marcus.

Durell put his arm around Deirdre and hugged her and looked at the small bruise on her forehead and felt a surge of rage that she should have been touched by Henley. Marcus walked over to Henley’s body and turned to stare at Durell under thick, lowered brows.

“You burned him, Sam?”

“No. These gentlemen took care of it. He was the squawk for Eli Plowman.”

“Oh, Jesus. Henley? There’ll be hell to pay.” Then Marcus’s voice deepened. “I see you got Tomash’ta. Did he tell you anything?”

Before Durell could reply, the first of the three neatly dressed guards said, “Mr. Durell, the boss wants to see you. Rufus Quayle. You’re privileged characters, the three of you. He hasn’t had a visitor since he came back three months ago.”

“Quayle is alive, then?”

The man nodded. “If you care to call it that.”

The Ca’d’Orizon smelled of must and decay, sea slime and mildew. A canal had been dug from the ocean to the front of the building, and seaweed and moss grew along the massive stone embankments. The canal formed a moat around three sides of the pseudo-palazzo, and a large terrace faced the mainland side, reaching all the way to the tidal channel Durell had followed earlier in the boat. Some striped Venetian mooring poles leaned precariously out over the moat where a Gothic arched doorway opened on a landing beside the sea canal. Above the landing were narrow leaded windows of stained glass that looked out over the coastal island. The beat of the surf was sullen and monotonous. The day was done, and the salt marshes that stretched for miles away toward the mainland were bathed in a misty, foggy darkness.

“What do you do here for amusement?” Durell asked the leader of the three guards.

“The old man keeps us busy.”

“Do you ever leave the island?”

“No. We sign on for two years. The pay is good. At the end of it, he sets us up in business.”

“In return for what?”

“In return for answering no questions, Mr. Durell.”