Assignment - Manchurian Doll (2 page)

From the subway terminal he took a bus that toiled through the grimy, ugly Tokyo suburbs, heading east. All Japanese cities are ugly, and you don’t truly know them until you get behind the walled houses in the residential districts and find the quiet, serene beauty of traditional Japanese life. Tokyo was only uglier than the other cities because it was bigger.

Durell’s shadow was a small Japanese teenage girl who wore excessively tight blue slacks and a white blouse and wore her thick, sleek black hair in severe bangs. Her mouth was sulky and unhappy in the heavy September heat. He noted the incongruity of her traditional tabi socks under her scuffed white loafers.

He did not think she was dangerous.

It was a festival day of some kind—there were countless local and national religious occasions marked by the Japanese, and this was one of the local sort—and when he got off the bus he found himself facing a crowded park by the sea with people all streaming in one direction. He let the current of humanity carry him along that way.

The sun was hot. The morning light glinted off the sea with blinding flashes, as if a thousand mirrors were played upon the sea pines dotting the shore. Brightly colored balloons bobbed and swayed in the wind. There were peddlers of all sorts, selling lucky amulets, souvenirs, food—soba sellers with wheeled carts dispensing soup, stalls offering smoked eels and raw fish, bean paste, noodles or rice.

Durell followed the crowd.

There were other Westerners here and there, visitors and tourists with their inevitable cameras, perspiring in the sun, confused by the brightly-colored chaos. The wide path fed people across shaded lawns like a river, across delicately arched wooden bridges, all leading to the huge red torii, the temple gate, up ahead.

The girl disappeared.

Durell did not see any sign of Waldo Fingal.

One
soba
seller had an ingenious arrangement on bicycle wheels for his cart, enabling him to remain seated while he ladled out his bowls of soup and noodles to hungry customers. He was an old man with a shaven head and a dirty white shirt and old black trousers. He wore
geta
clogs on big feet that looked like the twisted roots of an old tree. His voice was shrill and penetrating as he cried his wares.

He followed Durell across the last arched bridge into the temple grounds beyond the massive
torii
. The temple building was like a red jewel set among sparkling ponds and dwarf pines, with the sea and the towering white clouds on the horizon as a backdrop for a pageant. Here were Shinto priests in several
matsuri
, or processions, going about their rituals in colorful robes and ceremonial black headdresses, unconcerned with the milling tourists about them.

The sightseers’ route circled the temple and moved toward the pagoda that stood on a rocky promontory in the calm sea. Incense mingled with the smells of food; the shrill cries of children and peddlers were staccato notes among the murmuring celebrants. There were dragon costumes and those of Japanese witches and, among the children, even some outfits from the American Wild West.

The old
soba
seller pedaled vigorously up to Durell and extended a bowl of his soup. He spoke in Japanese.

“When the tiger is hungry, he must eat!” the man said, grinning, showing his toothless gums.

“No, thank you, I’m not hungry.”

“But, sir, you must be. The tiger is always hungry.”

“Then he chooses stronger game, old man.”

“Ah-hee! To be sure! You are Durell-san?”

Durell looked more closely at the old peddler. He still seemed quite ordinary. He nodded, and the old man said: “Follow me. You go in the third door in the back of the temple, where I will stop to sell my soup. There is nothing to fear.”

“Who will I meet there?”

“An old friend, ah-hee! He married my daughter, you know!”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Well, she died, but no matter. He is still my son. I speak of Fingal-san. He waits for you. He is a desperate man, sir. I wish you to help him as he wishes to help you.”

“All right, old man. Lead the way.”

He looked around for the young Japanese girl who had followed him from the hotel. She was not in sight. The crowd pressed him forward behind the jingling bells of the soba cart.

The temple was a low affair with a wooden pavilion circling it. Deep gongs sounded from the red-curtained entrance. The stream of tourists divided, most going to the front, where there were picnic grounds on the beach beyond. Durell turned left, following the jingling bicycle cart. There were three doors in the back wall of the temple. All were closed, recessed in deep shadow under the feathery eaves. A small porch ran the length of this end. Several people had gathered under the shade of nearby pines to rest.

The
soba
man paused at the door and twisted his head around to grin at Durell.

“My son-in-law waits inside. There is no danger. He will help you. And you must help him.”

“I’ll try.”

Durell went up on the porch and walked directly to the third door, a panel painted bright blue; he pushed it open and went in.

There was only darkness.

He flattened immediately against the wall to his right, feeling the pressure of the wooden panels against his shoulders. After the dazzling glare of the hot sun, there was nothing he could see, but he could sense he was in a small room that smelled of cedar and incense and a man’s fearful sweat.

“Hunh-hunh,” a voice said. “I wouldn’t want to tackle you even like this, Cajun. Forget the gun. We’re alone.”

He smelled of
shochu
, the cheap wine sold in the workers’ districts, and not even the thick incense of the temple could stifle it. Durell’s eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom and he saw he was in an utterly bare, little room with another door opposite the one he had entered. Waldo Fingal sat on the polished wooden floor against the far door, his white suit dirty and rumpled.

“Put away the bottle, Waldo,” Durell told him.

“Sure. It’s empty. I haven’t the price of another, either.” “How drunk are you?”

“Drunk enough to be here, but not enough to chase the glooms. It’s good to see you, Sam. You haven’t changed.” “I’ve changed,” Durell said.

“So have I, hunh. Not so pretty, I guess. Have you got any of the taxpayer’s money to spend on incidentals, Sam?” “Some. Are you an incidental?”

“What I’ve got to sell is the god’s truth.”

“Then sell it,” Durell said.

“Listen, Sam, I’ve had a hard time. I never blamed you when they kicked me out as a security risk. You could’ve slapped me in a Federal pen, the way I got the willies and funked out. But I never really let you down. I just shook at every shadow, that was all. That’s how it was. I never blamed you for the way I threw it all away.”

“Stand up, Waldo, and let’s have a look at you.”

“I’m not so pretty. I’m a beaten old man.”

“Is that really your father-in-law outside, selling soup? He says you married his daughter.”

“She died of T.B. in six months. Or maybe it was a broken heart. The Japanese can do that, you know.”

Waldo Fingal was an emaciated skeleton of a man. His wispy hair was like a halo around his partially bald head. His nose was sharp and gray, like something fashioned out of actor’s putty. He wore his white suit carelessly. Only his eyes were alive, filled with eternal terror, still intellectually brilliant, dourly amused at himself. When he moved closer to Durell, the smell of sour wine on his breath was oppressive.

“Did you read any of the Colette book?” Fingal asked. “I did a fine translation there. When it was finished, I had enough to live on for six months. It was my last job of that sort. That’s why I went to work for Omaru, when he contacted me.”

“Omaru?”

“Omaru runs the Kaiwa Trading Corporation. He runs people and propaganda and espionage cash back and forth along the East Asia coasts. Uses his fishing boats for that. You’re going to work with him, Sam. It was his pipeline that got you the message about Colonel Alexi Kaminov.” “You know a lot, Waldo. It could be dangerous.”

“All of life seems dangerous to me. That’s my trouble. If you don’t know Omaru, he’ll contact you. You’ll have to use his apparatus. I work for him, as I said. A mean bastard—Irish-Japanese. A combination, hunh? He married the widow of a Japanese baron who went into industry and made a pile in Manchuria in the Thirties. Isome, that’s her name. She’s a witch, all right, a tiny, beautiful bag of dirty tricks. They say she’s the true brains of the KGB
Apparat
here, but nobody knows. Omaru is just a businessman playing both sides of the fence.”

“What kind of work do you do for him, Waldo?”

“I run errands. And I work his code books for communication. That’s how I know all about Kaminov.”

“I see.”

Fingal said: “How much can you spare for me, Cajun?” 

“It depends.”

Fingal giggled. “How much is your life worth, hunh?”

“It depends on who wants it,” Durell said.

“Well, you know the KGB people have you on their list.” “I’ve known that for some time.”

“And Omaru is a businessman.”

“How much will they offer Omaru?”

“Twenty thousand, American.”

“Are you sure, Waldo?”

“It’s a pretty good price in the current market. You ought to be flattered, Cajun. They’re a bit tight-fisted about American currency. The exchange problem, you know.”

Durell said, “Is there any truth in the message that Kaminov wants to come over to our side?”

“Hunh. Yes. It’s true. He wants to. I decoded his message in Omaru’s pipeline myself.”

“Where is Kaminov now?”

“In Manchuria.”

“That’s a big place. Where?”

“The coast, somewhere. I don’t know.”

“Tell me, Waldo.”

“I would, and for free, Sam. Honest. You were good to me, and I’d tell you for free. But I don’t know.”

“Does Omaru know?”

“No.”

“Then who does?”

“The girl. Kaminov’s girlfriend. The bitch who runs the KGB apparatus in their embassy here. Nadja Osmanovna.”

“How would she know?”

“Colonel Kaminov fixed it, for insurance, because he wants to get out only if the girl comes with him, you see? He wants her real bad, I suppose. He’s a fool. But he’s hinging it all on whether she comes over to you, along with him, you see?” Waldo made a gulping noise. His thin frame wavered in the gloomy little temple room. Durell heard the reverberating boom of a gong in another part of the ancient wooden structure. The air shook.

Waldo said: “I was going to charge you plenty for all this, Sam, and here I’m giving it away free.”

“You’ll get paid. So we need Osmanovna’s cooperation just to find out where Kaminov is holed up in Manchuria. It’s presumably near the coast. But from what I hear, the girl is dedicated to her work. Any ideas on where or how to persuade her?”

“Nope.”

“All right. What else?”

“Their death list, Sam. They want to pick you off when you go over there. On their territory, you see? Much better for their propaganda machine, right? Right?”

“I see.”

“Omaru’s in it. The fat bastard always plays a double game. You use him, he collects from you, then he uses you and collects blood-money when you cross over and he hands you to the other side. Kaminov gets shot. The girl, too, if she plays along with you. As for you—I hate to think of it.”

“I see,” Durell said again.

“Don’t you believe me, Sam?”

“I don’t know.”

“Listen, Sam, Omaru would skin me alive—I mean that literally, he plays games that way—if he knew I contacted you like this.” “Are you sure?”

“Of what?”

“Are you sure Omaru himself didn’t set this up?”

Waldo snorted angrily. “You’re too damned devious, Sam. You’re too suspicious.”

“That’s how to stay alive in this business.”

Waldo grew angrier. “Well, hell, I just came here to do you a favor. My neck isn’t worth much, but I like to keep it without slits, you know. You were good to me once, Sam, and I didn’t want Omaru to fatten his bank accounts with your carcass, that’s all. You want to forget it, all right. You don’t owe me anything at all.”

“And you haven’t told me everything,” Durell said. “Hunh?”

“I’ll pay you, Waldo.”

“A hundred?”

“Much more, if it’s worth it.”

Fingal’s eyes glinted white in the gloom. The air was thicker now with the smell of incense. Some sort of ceremony had begun in the other part of the temple. They could hear the shuffling of feet, the beating of more gongs.

Durell said: “Don’t invent anything now, Waldo. You could still die in a Leavenworth cell, you know.”

“Well, it’s just that Kaminov is at a place. . .”

“Where?”

“I just don’t
know
where! The
girl
knows, that Nadja Osmanovna. That cold, bitchy doll is the key. And they’re all scared of her. A beautiful murder machine, that’s what she is. But she set up a private code with Kaminov, a long time ago, I guess. He was her instructor in Moscow, when she was at the KGB training school. Something private, just between them.”

“What is it?” Durell insisted.

“
Pere Jacques
," Waldo said.

“What?”

“That’s all of it. That’s the word. It’s the key that tells you where Kaminov is waiting for you to come and get him. Omaru would like to know what it is, too. When you get the girl and ask her, and if she tells you where it is or what it means, you go there in one of Omaru’s boats. Up to then, it’s a clean operation. But once you contact Kaminov, it gets good and dirty. Omaru turns you over to them, they scratch you off their Blue List, they nab Kaminov and shoot him as a traitor, and count their blood-money. Hunh-hunh.” Waldo was laughing. “So that’s the word.
Pere Jacques.
Mean anything at all to you, Sam?”

“No,” Durell said.

“Well, Osmanovna will know.”

“Is it a place, or a person?”

“It’s nothing. It might be everything . . . I’ve got to go now, Sam.”

“Wait, Waldo.”

“No. All of a sudden, I’m scared. I talked too much. You owe me a hundred, right? Omaru will kill me, though, if he finds the money on me. You could mail it to me. I’ll call your hotel, give you my address. It’s a bookstore, a front where Omaru stores printed propaganda matter taken over by his boats. I do translations. They’ve got a printing press there, too. The bookstore used to belong to my wife.”