Assignment - Lowlands (7 page)

The envelope of Swiss bank credits that Inspector Flaas had given him was easy to conceal behind the walnut wardrobe that served as a clothes closet in his room. He used a few strips of tape from the kit in his flight bag to tape the envelope to the back of the chest. He kept his own sketchy credentials in his wallet, along with his passport that listed his occupation as an attorney, although it had been a long time since he’d considered the practice of law.

When the coffee came, served by an apple-cheeked girl in peasant costume, he drank two cups and smoked another cigarette and waited, thinking of all the other times he’d had to wait like this, not knowing what the next moment might bring. He felt a faint squeamishness in his stomach and a deep, vague malaise, as if he were coming down with a cold. He took his pulse and found that it was faster and shallower than usual. It might be, he thought grimly, that he would follow Piet Van Horn to the grave in a few more hours.

He waited.

At ten o’clock the sea was dotted with sails, the tennis courts rang with excited cries and the thudding of tireless Dutch feet, the cyclists were long out of sight along the curving dike road, and the sun was hot on the beach and the placid sea. Durell sat in a chair near the window and closed his eyes. His head ached. It could be from lack of sleep, and from the beating he’d taken at the hands of the mysterious blonde Cassandra’s men. Could be. He hoped that was all it might be, and told himself not to think about it.

But he could not help thinking about it.

He sweated out time that stretched to infinity and spun -away like water pouring downstream.

At eleven o’clock he finished the coffee, smoked the last of his cigarettes, and was bathed in a cool, uncertain sweat that was unusual for him. He felt drowsy. The sun and the sounds of the holiday-makers in the big wooden hotel, the brightness of the sea and sky, had a hypnotic effect he could not combat.

He dozed.

He dreamed of his boyhood in the Louisiana bayous and of his years at Yale, and of a long procession of able, dedicated men in the business who were dead now.

Maybe his luck had run out at last.

Then there came a sharp, hard rap on his room door, and he got up and unlocked it. He looked at the man who stood in the deserted corridor outside, and he knew this was his enemy.

He was tall, powerful, with dangerous eyes and an arrogant, amoral, animal aura about him. There was no attempt at courtesy. He said, “Durell?” and pushed into the room shutting the door with a thud. He looked around, crossed to the window to stare at the sea and the beach and the dike, opened the dresser and glanced inside, yanked open the bathroom door and stuck his head in, then turned to Durell.

“Well?”

“I’m Durell.”

“Sit down, like a good chap, will you?”

“Are you Julian Wilde?”

“Of course. You must have talked to that stupid Piet Van Horn. How is Piet, by the way?”

“Piet is dead,” Durell said flatly.

“Good.” The man grinned. “He was stupid, you know.” Durell said nothing. He felt a surge of anger at the man’s callous words, and knew the remark was calculated to throw him off balance. He waited quietly.

Julian Wilde moved with the grace of a jungle cat. His British accent was almost, not quite, perfect; the way in which certain consonants were pronounced hinted faintly of a Middle European origin. He could be Balkan, Czech, or Polish. There was a Slavic prominence to his cheekbones, and he had thick blond hair. His brown eyes were hard and sharp, his hands were big, powerful. There was a look of anger all about him, a sense of danger, as if something explosive ticked inside his strong, restless figure. He wore an English tweed jacket, flannel slacks, and white sport shoes. His teeth looked white and strong when he smiled.

“You knew Piet Van Horn, eh?” he asked. “What did you do with the body?”

“I knew him. He’s safely disposed of.”

“Good. We can’t have the plague spreading unnecessarily, can we?” Wilde paused. “I told you to sit down, my friend.”

“We’re not friends. Did you come here to do business?” “I came here to find out about Marius, first.”

“Who?”

“My brother Marius. The innocent. The bloody idiot. What have you done with him?” Julian Wilde’s voice was harsh. “And don’t look surprised or ignorant. It won’t wash, you know. I give you chaps all the credit in the world for being brainy types. But if you’ve taken Marius into custody for star-chamber proceedings, you’ll regret it.”

“I have no information on that,” Durell said.

“I don’t believe you. You look too cool for comfort.”

Durell gave the big man no answer. For a moment he debated taking Julian Wilde, disarming him. He could do it,he decided. Julian Wilde was big and powerful and undoubtedly armed; but the risk  might be worth it, if the whole thing could be wound up here and now. The only trouble was, there was no telling what provision Wilde might have made against such a move. There was a feral quality about him that made Durell pause—an amoral glint in the eye, a savagery to the mouth. There was a breed of adventurers in the world who acknowledged no moral codes. And the stamp of that breed was on Julian Wilde, without mistake.

“We know nothing about what has happened to your brother,” Durell said. “I’m sure we don’t have him.”

“You’ve got him, all right. Why else would he vanish? I want him back, friend. And I resent this move against us. The price has gone up. We want ten million now.” 

Durell stared. “I’ve only been authorized to deal with you for five million dollars.”

“Too bad. The cost of fooling around brings it up to ten. In cash, at the Banque Populaire Suisse. And for every hour Marius is missing, the price rises another hundred thousand. Understand?”

“I’m not authorized—”

“Then get the authorization!” Julian Wilde snapped. A fine beading of sweat was on his upper lip. “I want Marius back, safe and unharmed. I haven’t taken care of the bloody fool all these years, trying to get ahead, just to have him pay the piper at the last minute.”

“I don’t know what I can do,” Durell said. “For all I know, your brother may have paid the same price Piet Van Horn paid.”

“No! Marius knew how to handle the stuff.”

“Is he the biochemist, then?”

“We both know how to handle Cassandra; don’t worry.” 

“Well enough to spread the plague in Doorn?”

“It’s been contained there,” Wilde said quickly.

“But five fishermen have died.”

“Well, that was their fault, you see? One of them got frisky, and they all paid for it. Anyone who crosses us pays for it.”

“And those deaths don’t bother you?” Durell asked. “Are you serious in your threat to kill millions of people?” There was silence in the room, and in the brief pause Durell heard again the cries of the bathers on the beach, the thud and slap of the tennis players, the jingle of bicycle bells. Beyond the window the sun shone on an innocent holiday world. But what was outside seemed unreal, and the only truth was in this hotel room, in the words that darkened the atmosphere between them.

A subtle change had come over Julian Wilde—a sense of menace and desperation, of complete detachment from normal human values. Watching him, Durell felt a faint shiver deep inside himself. There was something different about Wilde. His British manner rang untrue, oddly out of key. All at once, Durell felt as if he had invited an alien danger into the room that had changed the color of the atmosphere and tinged the day with weird and unparalleled menace.

He shook himself mentally. Either he was beginning to run a fever, which meant he was hopelessly following Piet down to doom, or he was letting this man’s manner dominate him with hypnotic strength.

“Well, there you have it,” Wilde said suddenly. “I mean to have Marius back, safe and hearty, clear? The price is now ten million—and in return, you get all the Cassandra: lab and equipment and culture vials.”

“How can we know you won’t hold out enough to blackmail us again?”

“You can’t be sure. You must trust us.”

“And if we don’t?”

“You have to.” Wilde grinned tightly. “Remember, get Marius back by six o’clock. I’ll drop by then. And arrange for the increase in bank credits, like a good chap. Or else.” Wilde’s hand moved flickeringly, faster than Durell had ever seen a knife drawn before. The blade came from his sleeve, and its flat shaft caught the sunlight with a momentary blinding flash as Wilde stepped across the room and thrust the point at Durell’s throat. Durell did not move. His dark eyes were almost black as he said quietly: “Put the knife away, Wilde.”

“What I can do to you now, I can do to the whole world. Is that clear? I mean to be safe, and I mean to be wealthy. I haven’t suffered and waited all these years for nothing. Neither I nor Marius will tolerate any foolery. We mean what we say. We would rather die than fail— as you will die, if you don’t have Marius here for me by six o’clock tonight to conclude our deal.”

There was something tigerish in the man’s brown eyes, in his tight, hard grin. Durell felt the pinprick of the knife point against his throat and said again, “Put it away, Wilde, or lose it.”

“Lose it? Really? I’m fond of this blade, you know. I’ve had two, exactly alike, for a long time. If you could see the grip, you would notice the skull and crossbones of the dear old Gestapo elite. Inlaid with silver and ivory, no less. The Nazi who owned it died when he began beating poor Marius. Marius never knew how to care for himself. Or am I telling you too much? Is it all registering? Will you do some quick research on us? It will get you nowhere, friend. When we have our credits and you have Cassandra, the deal will be ended, and we shall simply disappear.”

“I doubt if you’ll get away with it.”

“Oh, but we will!” Then man breathed angrily. “We’ve waited a long time—and Marius may not have been strong enough to cope with this brutal world, but he was clever, and a wonderful schemer. He saw the possibilities when the chance came. He worked out everything.”

“So of the two of you, he is the brains” Durell said. “You may think so, if you like.”

“Without him, you’re just the muscle, is that it?”

The knife at Durell’s throat moved slightly. “This blade has been used more than once. I could use it again.

I could easily dislike you, old man, to the point where I might kill you.”

“For the last time,” Durell said, “put it away.”

Wilde grinned. There was a sort of jungle cruelty in the man, a fanaticism and a knowledge of blood spilled long ago.

Durell dropped and turned, chopping at the knife in Wilde’s threatening hand. His move was fluid and deadly. Wilde made a thin gasping sound and tried to step back, but Durell hooked a foot behind his heel and sent him over backward, staggering. At the same time, Durell twisted painfully and the knife went flickering through the air. Durell turned with it and when it clattered to the floor, he stamped hard on it.

The blade shattered under his heel.

Stooping, he picked up the handle, noting the ivory and jeweled Nazi decorations in the grip. He tossed the broken point of the blade into the wastebasket.

“You broke my knife!” Wilde whispered incredulously. “I don’t like them at my throat. Not even as a joke. Or was it a joke, Wilde?”

“I had that a long time. I valued it highly.”

“Then you shouldn’t have treated it as a toy.” Something faded in Wilde’s pale brown eyes, and then he looked up and shrugged, smiling. The tension and violence abruptly left his voice and he spoke quietly and crisply.

“I shall call on you again at six o’clock this evening. I will be prepared to deliver everything you want. In return, I warn you, I must find my brother Marius here, safe, unharmed. And ten million dollars in credits. At six o’clock.”

“I’ll be here,” Durell said.

He stood still until Julian Wilde had left the room.

He counted a slow ten, then he too stepped out into the corridor. A young man and a girl came down the hall hand in hand, swinging tennis rackets. They smiled at Durell in passing. There was no sign of Julian Wilde.

For a moment he wondered if Wilde might be checked into an adjacent room. It might have been the smart thing to do. Then the young man, in passing, said in accented English, “Are you looking for your friend, sir? He went down the steps there, in a tremendous hurry.”

“Thank you.”

He followed quickly, going down the wide wooden stairs to the lobby. Perhaps what he was doing was not practical, but there was a faint chance that he might be able to tail Julian Wilde to some place of importance. That he might infuriate the already fury-ridden man was a chance he had to take.

Wilde was striding out through the front doorway of the Gunderhof when Durell reached the bottom of the stairs. The sea sparkled blindingly beyond the brief boardwalk and the beach. Sails bent to the wind beyond the low-lying islands offshore. Wilde turned left, stalking with feline grace among the deckchairs and tangled bicycles on the paving, and he did not look back. The path on the dike led in a long curve toward the red roofs and docks of Amschellig, a quarter-mile away. The walk was spotted with strollers and cyclists; and Durell, after allowing a greater distance to come between them, followed Wilde at an even pace.

It seemed to him that his brief interview had netted enough information to keep Inspector Flaas and O’Keefe quite busy. No one except Piet had mentioned Marius Wilde until now. And Julian Wilde was in a rage because his brother was missing. Durell had no idea what meaning this might have, except that Julian had remorselessly applied more pressure because of it. Something would have to be done about it quickly.

He wished he could have held the man a little longer. Too many questions were still unanswered. Were Julian and his brother the only men involved in the Cassandra plot? Or were there others? Perhaps the Wildes were only messengers and agents; but on this, Durell could not make up his mind. Julian Wilde seemed to be his own master, and only time would tell if there were others still in the shadows.

Julian Wilde seemed unconcerned about being followed. He walked swiftly in the North Sea sunshine, never looking backward. Durell checked behind him to see if Wilde’s self-assurance stemmed from having a cover for his escape; but he could see no one suspicious among the holiday crowds strolling on the dike.