Assignmnt - Ceylon (23 page)

“Oh, no . . .” Aspara whispered.

“Keep him there. Please.”

There was a long silence.

“Very well,” she said. “I will be waiting for you.”

Mr. Dhapura said, “Sir, I am happy beyond belief, and your good fortune at surviving is incredible. Sir, you have my deepest admiration. I only sorrow that your work on behalf of my country cannot be publicized, and in fact, it had been decided that you had best leave Colombo as soon as you are physically able. Mr. Durell, sir, in certain government circles they fear that you may actually be an embarrassment. Explanations have been drawn up, ready for the press, as to the events in which you were involved. It would be awkward, you see, sir, if you were available for official questioning, and if you had to admit your capacity on behalf of the US—”

“I have no official capacity,” Durell said. “Not anymore.”

It was night, but the hotel room in the Royal Lanka was as hot as it had been before. Mr. Dhapura put on a pair of tinted, heavily framed glasses and peered at him with his round, brown face. Durell had found a fresh dark-blue suit in his luggage, a washable doubleknit, a new striped shirt, a dark solid necktie, and had changed into buckled shoes. Freshly showered and shaved, he felt infinitely better. He moved around the room, picking up his wallet and loose change and currency and keys. Mr. Dhapura’s eyes followed him with mild curiosity.

“Sir, you are going out?”

“Yes.”

“Does the doctor think it advisable?”

“No.”

“Perhaps another day of rest, sir ... I have obtained tickets, for you on a CAA jet flight from Bandaranaike Airport for tomorrow morning, sir. You understand, I regret the necessity. But there have been so many strange rumors flying in government circles—and Madame Aspara has not been available for a cabinet conference, to determine the official communique regarding the purported Buddha Stone and this Dr. Mouquerana Sinn—”

“There is no Buddha Stone,” Durell said. “You don’t have any cause for alarm. I’ll be back to check out. It’s just some unfinished business, that’s all.”

“Sir, I am concerned. My responsibilities, sir—”

“I promise you, everything will be quiet.”

“Will you see Colonel Skoll in the hospital?”

“Perhaps.”

“Tell me, sir, this Mr. William Wells—”

“He’s flown back to the States, as you know. General Dickinson McFee and I will fly out too, as you suggest.”

“That is good. Very good. I regret what may seem like an inhospitable attitude—”

“I understand.”

Mr. Dhapura—Durell could still think of him as the manager of the Royal Lanka, not as a major in the security police—waved his small brown hands. His eyes were enigmatic behind his black-rimmed, tinted glasses.

“I shall expect, sir, to see you back here in time for the scheduled flight. I bend the rules a bit, you see. For your sake. Are you sure you feel well enough to venture into the streets?”

“I’d feel better if I had my gun back.”

“Oh, sir. No, sir.”

Durell said, “I didn’t think you would.”

He took his rented car from the garage behind the Royal Lanka and drove north out of the city across Victoria Bridge and out on Road 3A toward Negombo. At nine o’clock in the evening, the traffic was reasonably fight, and the trip took less than thirty minutes. The little fishing village was asleep beside its old Dutch canals and the softly splashing moonlit beach. Fishing nets hung on high poles to dry near the row of high-prowed catamaran fishing boats hauled up above the tide fine. The moon was not as full as it had been three days ago, but its pale light still reminded him of the nightmare of Dr. Sinn’s island in the Andamans.

Only one light shone inside the house, in a room toward the front, facing the beach. He parked behind the old Rolls-Royce touring car. She must have retrieved it from where it had been abandoned above Kandy, although it would need a considerable amount of body work to restore it as it had been. He felt the long, sleek hood. The engine was cold. He looked to see if the ignition was in the lock. It was not. Finally he walked around to the front door and rang the old-fashioned thumb-screw bell.

Aspara opened the door almost immediately. She had been waiting for him. She wore a silver-embroidered saree and a silver-filigreed comb in the back of her long, silken hair, which was done up in an extravagant knot on the nape of her neck. She had never, he thought, looked more beautiful or exotic. She held out her hand to him.

“Dear Sam.”

Her face was pale, her fingers were cool. Something strange moved in her eyes. She was afraid of him now. He knew at once that their relationship had changed, perhaps permanently. Nothing would ever be the same again.

She said, “I did not think you would be up and about so soon.”

“Things have to be done. Is George at home?”

“The poor boy has been so ill. Just a few moments ago. He has not said a word to me, ever since we were taken off the island by your friends. He—he has withdrawn, taken himself somewhere else. He is completely changed.”

“I’d still like to talk to him,” Durell said.

“I wish you would not trouble the boy.”

“I told you. It has to be done.”

“Dear Sam, the boy is very disturbed, he acts utterly crushed, very subdued—”

“He’s a drug addict,” Durell said. “Dr. Sinn recruited him that way, was his source of supply. Now the supply is cut off.”

She clasped her hands before her. Her great eyes sorrowed. “Yes, I can see that. I am not sure what you can get out of him. I’m afraid. Yes, I’m afraid for him. Not a word to me, nothing at all. As if he’s thinking—thinking of something terrible—”

Durell said, “Aspara, Dr. Sinn managed to escape with all his computer tapes and records. He had taken over Madame Hung’s organization, a private espionage outfit that was totally immoral. If there is no crisis in the world at the moment, Dr. Mouquerana Sinn will manufacture one. Data, information, those are his commodities. I need to know, Aspara. It’s true that George was never very high in the organization—he was simply a useful pawn now and then—but whatever facts he may have, I must have, too. I need a thread, something to hang on it, to go after the man.”

“George cannot help you. As you say, he was never important to Dr. Sinn.”

“We can’t tell,” he said urgently. “It could be some lit-— tie thing. A hint, a clue. Enough to give us a start.”

She paused. “Yes. I would feel better if that monster were not loose in the world.”

“Then let me see George.”

She drew a deep breath. Her eyes were tragic. “Very well.”

The room in the back of the cottage looked as if a wild animal had gone into a total frenzy in it, silent and utterly destructive. Durell moved inside quickly, aware of Aspara’s soft, sibilant intake of shocked breath. The closets were empty except for a battered suitcase with customs tags, a pair of dirty socks, a paint-stained pair of blue jeans, sneakers, a scarlet-flowered shirt. Durell snapped open the suitcase, tossing it on the bed to do so. Aspara started to speak, then was silent. Inside the suitcase, amid a jumble of dirty linen, was a small tin box containing several syringes, a needle, an empty aspirin bottle that contained only a fine dusting of white powder.

The window was open.

“Where would he go?”

Aspara said, “The beach, perhaps. Or the canal. I am not certain.”

“Stay here.”

“No. I must go with you.”

He did not waste time in argument. He went out the back door, circled the garage shed where the battered Rolls and his own rental car were parked, and went through a brake of tall bamboo. The beach was just beyond. Moonlight flooded the placid sea. He walked with a long impatient stride, and Aspara half ran to keep up with him. The fishing nets made graceful, shadowed patterns, hanging from their tall poles dug into the sand. There was phosphorescence out on the sea where fish jumped and splashed. The nets were only a few hundred yards to the left. Durell turned that way, his eyes searching for the boy’s slight figure. He was filled with a mixture of pity and anger—pity for Aspara, for what she might be feeling; anger at an impending loss, a certain knowledge that he would have to start all over again with nothing in his hands to guide him. There would surely be grief and suffering and death before he heard from Dr. Mouquerana Sinn again. It was a cycle that the world had known before —and would know again.

He halted suddenly.

“That’s far enough, Aspara.”

“But where is he?”

“Did you tell him I was coming?”

“No. But he might have been listening, when you telephoned.”

“I’m sure he listened. Don’t look at him.”

Aspara put her hands to her mouth as she stared to where he pointed. Something dark and slender dangled limply from among the graceful, lovely pattern of fishing nets hanging from the poles near the water’s edge. It moved slowly, rotating from the rope around its neck. “George?” she whispered. “George?”

Aspara stared at the hanged body of her son.

“Please go away, Sam.”

“Will you call the police?”

“I will attend to everything. Please go.”

He walked back alone toward his car.

Colonel Cesar Skoll looked up at him from the hospital bed near Ward Place. His grin was savage. “You are certain he hanged himself?”

“I’m certain.”

“Perhaps we can get a lead from the PFM, this Cobra’s Bow, or from some of the men Mr. Dhapura took into custody.”

“I doubt it.”

“You are up against a blank wall, then?”

“I have nothing,” Durell said.

“Well, we are both still alive.”

The hospital room was quiet, immaculately clean, air-conditioned against the humid heat of Colombo’s night. Durell stood quietly at the foot of Skoll’s bed. The Russian had an IV needle in one thick, massive arm, a tube up his nose, a splint on his other arm, bandages that swathed his long, powerful legs, more bandages on his scalp and chest. The room smelled of ointments. His fingers, where he had lost his fingernails, were also in bandages. The KGB man was as helpless as Durell had ever seen him. Only the ice-blue Siberian eyes seemed normal, watching Durell’s stolid face.

“Comrade Cajun, it is a truth that sometimes we win and sometimes we lose.”

“Yes. But it’s only begun,” Durell said.

“Da, Comrade Cajun. I will not be in this damned bed for long. It is terrible here. Naturally, my own people will come to fly me back to Moscow for treatment there. They would not like to see me here for long. But perhaps, until morning—could you possibly get me a drink of vodka? Just a sip would be a help.”

Durell put his paper bag on the table beside the hospital bed. “I’ve brought you a whole bottle, Cesar.”

“Ho. If you were not an imperialist, capitalist spy, I would say that there is still hope for you, Cajun.”

Durell said, “I’ll have to leave Sri Lanka too. Mr. Dhapura’s orders.”

“You will work again for your little General McFee?”

“I suppose so.”

“He would have had you killed.” The Russian grinned. “Why not work with me? You would be safe, Never, never, would I send one of your comrades to kill you.”

“Is that right?”

“You do not smile, Comrade Cajun. It was only a little joke. I know you will not come over the wire. I know you will return to Washington. I know the kind of man you are.”

Durell said, “They tell me you’re going to be fine, Cesar.”

“Ho. Of course I will survive. But I am so thirsty at the moment. It tires me to talk, I must admit.”

“There’s nothing much more to say,” Durell agreed. “I think we’ve lost the first round.”

“Not altogether. Much was done.”

Durell got two hospital glasses, rinsed them in the sink across the room, dragged a chair up to Skoll’s bedside, and very carefully filled both glasses with vodka and held one to the Russian’s lips. When Skoll finished and sighed and belched, Durell started to drink along with him.

It was going to be a long night.