Assignment - Cong Hai Kill (14 page)
Read Assignment - Cong Hai Kill Online
Authors: Edward S. Aarons
In the few minutes it
took to walk to the house that stood on pilings over the river mud, the village
came back to some semblance of life. Pigs and chickens were let loose, and the
thin cries of hungry children rose through the gathering dusk. More lanterns
were lit; the people reassured by Muong’s scanty platoon. A woman
stepped from the shadows and offered Durell a pink liquid to drink, smiling
shyly. He shook his head and went on.
At the foot of the steps
leading to the veranda, he paused. “Danat! Pierre Danat!”
A lamp shone inside the
house. This place had been untouched by the terrorists, and several pirogues
were beached in the mud under the house. Chickens scratched, and Durell thought
he heard a distant roll of thunder in the terraced hills on either side of the
valley. It was not yet the monsoon season, but rain was in the air, thick and
heavy, making the lungs labor for each breath. He was drenched with sweat.
“Danat!” he called
again.
The house had a roof
with upturned eaves like a Chinese pagoda. Behind it were small godowns that
had escaped burning. Nothing stirred. He put one foot on the lower step of the
ladder to the veranda and a man appeared, outlined hugely against the dim light
that oozed from inside.
“Who calls Danat?”
he answered in French.
Durell spoke
deliberately in English. “I’ve come back here with your daughter, M’sieu Danat!
Is it you? My name is Sam Durell. You should have been expecting me.”
“But of course?’ the man
bellowed. He sounded drunk, and his stout frame swayed as he grabbed at the
veranda rail above Durell. “Come up, come up, my dear fellow. No need for your
gun. I am alone here —except for Giralda. My woman. Her real name is Thac Phong,
but my first wife was Giralda, an Italian from Turin. Wonderful woman. But
she died a long time ago. She was Anna—Marie’s mother. Is my little girl safe?”
“She’s here. She’s all
right.”
“Come up, come up!” the
man said again.
Durell kept his gun
ready as he mounted the ladder. Pierre Danat was a stout barrel of a
man, wearing khaki trousers and jungle boots and a rough brown shirt. His bald
head had a grizzled halo of thin hair, and he brandished an empty bottle of Stravei vermouth
as if it were a club. Durell was reminded of nothing more than Friar Tuck, out
of a tale of Robin Hood. Here was the same round face, the roguish eye, the
sense of strength mingled with earthy blasphemy. But the Frenchman’s
coordination was poor. He staggered and grabbed at a teak post for support,
laughed, and rubbed his mouth with the back of a hand that looked like a slab
of oak. He winked, twisting one side of his face in a caricature of conspiracy.
“I taught Giralda-——the
second one, that is—a taste for Stravei, which is made in Turin.” He
laughed again. “And you made it, eh? We despaired of you, when the damned Cong Hai appeared
today. But your friend, who waits for you, said you were due. He has remarkable
faith in you, M’sieu Durell.”
“Is Lantern with you
now?” Durell asked.
Pierre Danat put
a fat finger to his lips. “Ah, how those devils hunted for him! They tore the
village apart. They knew he was here, but they could not find him.”
Danat
slapped
his huge belly with both hands. “After all, I had to hide him, did I not? My
poor little Anna-Marie loves him so madly. And he is not such a bad sort, you
know.”
“Where is he?”
“One moment.”
Danat
started
for the door, staggered, and Durell caught his arm to steady him. It was like
grabbing the hard trunk of a young tree. There was an odor about the man that
defied easy analysis—sweat and drink, cheap perfume and liquor. And something
else.
“Are you all right, Danat?“
“I have been indulging
myself. My poor villagers! One tries to erase bad things from the mind.”
“With what?”
“Anything. A woman. Stravei.”
“And a pipe of opium?”
Danat
grinned.
“That, too. You are a Puritan, eh? All Americans frown on the sins of others.
But you can lecture me on my sins later. I have go many of them, you will need
much time. Please, please. Come in.”
“You first,” Durell said
grimly.
Papa Danat thought
his caution was a great joke, and let out a bellow of laughter that startled
the herons across the river. They were invisible now, but the sound of their
heavy, awkward bodies splashing through the reeds and then taking flight came
clearly across the river valley. The sound of laughter must seem strange,
Durell thought, in the ears of the stunned villagers, after the Cong Hai had
visited them.
He could see no
resemblance between this gross man and the delicate Anna-Marie. But such things
happened. He followed Danat into the big native house.
The room was floored
with teak planks, highly polished, and the Woven Walls of bamboo reflected the
yellow glow of an oil lamp on a low Japanese table. There were Japanese tatami
mats and a sleeping block in a corner and a thin Thai silk coverlet like a huge
butterfly’s wing. A naked woman lay under the silk sheet, her dark hair a
glossy tumble about her brown shoulders. Her eyes were pale brown, and
reflected an agate-hard resentment of Durell’s intrusion. Her soft, everted lips
were garish with lipstick that spoiled her native beauty, and she was adorned
with many rings, jingling bracelets, and an amber necklace. There was a finely
carved opium pipe and smoking kit on a low table near her. The bamboo screens
were rolled down, and the air in the room somehow had the smell of a
sick-chamber.
“Giralda, my dear . . .” Danat began.
“I will go,” she said in
English.
“Not yet,” Durell
suggested.
“It is unpleasant to be
stared at so. I will go.”
Durell said sharply:
“Stay until our business is finished.” He turned to the huge, weaving figure of
Papa Danat. “Does this woman know where you’ve hidden Orris Lantern?”
Danat
chuckled,
and put a finger to the blob of his nose. “No, I did not tell her, although I
must say that, like most women, she was most curious about the business.”
The brown-skinned woman
sat up, careless of exposing her full, proud breasts. She smelled of saffron
and strange spices and anger. “You kept him
here
? With us? While
those devils searched all around for him?”
Danat
roared.
“Where else, pet? Ah, you are beautiful when you are angry. You would have told
them, eh? To save yourself—”
“To save
you
,
you fool!”
“Well, it worked, eh?
They knew me, they did not touch me, eh? They think I sympathize,” he said,
turning to Durell. “I speak of so many French mistakes in Indochina. I curse
them and ask for justice from the people. They mistake my words and accept them
for what they hope to hear. Now, come, M’sieu Durell, and I will show
you our fine treasure.”
“Is Lantern alive?”
For a moment, Papa Danat looked
utterly sober.
“Can one kill the
devil?" he whispered.
They descended the
ladder to the muddy ground below. From the main street came renewed sounds of
native voices, but along the river’s edge, all was dark and deserted. A
duckboard walk led them to the small godowns a hundred yards up the river. This
part of Dong Xo had been spared by the guerrillas, and Durell wondered why, and
how much influence this Papa Danat really had with the Cong Hal. He
felt as if he were groping through a miasma of conflicting loyalties and
deceits.
“Here we are,” Papa
granted.
“You first.”
“Again?”
“Always.”
“I would like to see my
little daughter.”
She’s safe. You’ll see
her later.
The godown looked
small and rickety, but it was built of teak and age had only tightened its
peg-and-beam construction. The door was low. Papa Danat called inside
and then shambled in. A flashlight bloomed, blinding them.
From a corner of the
little warehouse came the sound of labored breathing, like that of a Wounded
animal. And then a thin, hillbilly drawl, filled with irony and amusement,
spoke from the darkness behind the glare.
“Welcome, Cajun. Don’t
shoot, huh? I give up, like we said when we was kids.”
16
DURELL stood unblinking
in the explosive glare of the flashlight. Papa Danat sucked in a
long, hissing breath. Durell said quietly: “I ought to shut the door.”
“Right, Cajun. Do it
slow, like. And don’t shoot until you see the whites of my eyes.”
“You have the drop on
me, haven’t you?” Durell closed the door. The darkness seemed darker, the
flashlight brighter. “Papa, is there a lamp in here?”
“
Oui
,
oui
,
I have it.”
“Then light it.”
The voice from the
corner said: “I ain’t sure—”
“You’ve given up,"
Durell said. His voice was hard. “You’re my prisoner. You’ll obey orders.”
“Yessuh.” There was
heavy irony in the reply. “To the best of my ever-lovin’ ability, so long as
you get me out of here with what’s left of me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Shot in the goddam
back. Why do you think I wasn’t on the steamer with old Chang?”
Papa Danat scratched
a wooden match aflame, like a tiny bomb, and then shakily lit an oil lamp. The
yellow glow made the dusty walls of the godown leap toward them out
of a black nothingness. Durell saw piles of crates, bales of tea, some teak
lumber. The narrow building was without windows except for large triangular
vents at the pagoda-like gables. There were louvers all around for air, but
they had been shut tight, and it was like standing in an oven. Durell felt
sweat trickle down his chest and belly.
He also felt a certain
measure of surprise.
You always expected the
worst, and usually you got it. You expected delays, paperwork, frustrations. It
was an occupational hazard, conducive to ulcers if you tried to be patient, and
a bullet in the head if you were rash and careless.
He had been sent halfway
around the world to find this man; but he hadn’t expected it to be this easy.
He was suspicious of it.
And when he looked at Orris Lantern, he knew his troubles had just
begun. Not merely with the renegade detector. He knew he would have trouble
with himself.
In the glow of the oil
lamp, Orris looked like a half-starved jungle leopard. And as
dangerous as a wounded beast who has escaped the hunter’s final bullet.
Yellow eyes blazed back
sardonically into Durell’s dark blue ones as they confronted each other.
Lantern lay on a pallet of empty tea sacks. Some bloody bandages had been
tossed a short distance nearby, and the dirty rags seemed to move with a life
of their own. They swarmed with insects. There were some empty GI cans of food,
and in Orris’ left hand was a heavy Army Colt .45, regulation issue.
Durell wondered briefly where Orris had gotten it. Some dead American
boy in a Vietnam jungle had yielded it up, perhaps. But he pushed the thought
from his mind. That way could only lead to killing this man here and now,
without mercy or hesitation.
Orris
read
his face. His drawl quickened for a moment, and the yellow eyes dulled briefly.
“Better count ten,
Cajun. The deal is, you take me in alive, right? No matter how it turns your
gut, eh? I know what you’d like to do; but if you want what you came for, you
got to keep me in one piece, see?”
“The deal is to take you
in, in exchange for data on the Cong Hai fortress areas here. The
Thais want that chart, and so does Washington.”
“There ain’t no chart.” Orris grinned
his tiger’s grin. “It’s all in my head. So if you blow my head off, you blow it
all into the mud.”
“You’ve memorized it?”
“Everything I could
get.”
“I don’t like
qualifications. Don’t you have it all?”
“Nope. It’s up to you to
get the rest.”
Lantern coughed, a sound
that changed to a sudden grunt of pain. A spasm twisted his lean, bearded face.
His khaki shirt was ragged, muddy, and blood-stained. His shorts were hacked
off above the knees, and his legs were caked with filth. He had only one boot.
A crude bandage was wrapped on his left shoulder, and blood made a dark crust
on it.
"
Sacré
nom
,”
Papa Danat whispered. “You look much worse, my poor boy.”
“He’s not a ‘poor boy,’
” Durell said harshly. “He’s led these murderers for six months, burning and
raping and inciting terror.” He looked ‘down at the Lantern. “Who shot you?”
“I didn’t see him. He
came at my back.”
“But you think it was a
man?”
Lantern grinned. “Who
knows? I was in the swamp, waiting to jump on the steamer at the last moment.
Papa Danat took me down the trail and then left me. Maybe Papa went
back and got the assassin to plug me.”