Assignment Unicorn (6 page)

“Ah. Gray eyes.” Colonel Ko was pleased. “Very good, Mr.
Durell.”

“It proves little,” Durell said. “He’s a member of a team of
assassins, not merely Malays running amok. These were men from abroad, who
sneaked into Palingpon with one object: the killing of Premier Shang or Hugh
Donaldson, or both.”

The Indian doctor was listening with some interest.

Durell went on. “A gang that was either hypnotized in some
way, given posthypnotic suggestions—it is well known that a man in a trance can
have extraordinary physical powers—or perhaps drugged, given some stimulant—”

The doctor said, “There is no such stimulant known to the
medical profession.”

Colonel Ko’s boots squeaked as he turned. “Not known to
you
, perhaps, Doctor.”

Durell bent over the prisoner again. He touched the man’s
lower left bicep. “Doctor, come here, please. Is this a mosquito bite? An
insect sting?”

There was a small red mark on the man’s pale washed skin.
The white-jacketed doctor bent forward, holding his stethoscope in his pocket.
“Very difficult to tell.”

“You can’t tell the difference between a hypodermic and an
insect sting?”

“Sir, an insect’s sting is a hypodermic. Like a needle,
precisely. This one is small. Very small. It is not possible to differentiate
between them. It is also several days old, of course. You can see how this tiny
puncture has already healed. There is no sign, however, that the sting was an
irritant. You can see, on the skin around it, no sign that the prisoner
scratched or rubbed at it.”

Durell looked down into the prisoner’s staring eyes.

“I’d like to have this man transferred to the state hospital
for exhaustive tests, Colonel Ko.”

“Impossible.”

Durell raised his head. “Why?”

“He must be executed.”

“That’s foolish,” Durell said.

“It has been decided.”

“Who decided on killing him?”

“I did,” said Colonel Ko.

“When do you propose to do this?”

“In Palingpon, considering the internal security measures
that must be taken since Premier Shang’s death, it must he demonstrated that
justice will be swift and merciless. The prisoner will be executed directly we
are finished here.”

“Even if he doesn’t talk?” Durell asked.

“He cannot talk,” said the doctor.

“He will not talk,” said Colonel Ko.

Durell looked into the prisoner’s face and eyes.

“All right,” he said. “Kill him.”

11

A HUGE old sapodilla tree, a heap of old lumber and scrap
metal, and heavy, fleshy-leafed vines made the prison courtyard even
gloomier than the interior. Durell followed the little procession out along a
brick path to a stake thrust into a small mound in the center of the yard.
Arched, barred windows surrounded them, and in most of the windows a face
appeared, hands gripping the bars, watching. Colonel Ko’s boots were silent on
the moss-grown bricks. There was not a breath of air within the courtyard. The
stench of the swamp and the sewage floating in the Palingpon
klongs
attacked
Durell’s nostrils. He tried to breath lightly. No one else in the procession
seemed to notice.

The prisoner had to be supported by two armed soldiers of
the firing squad. Everything about him sagged and flopped
bonelessly
. His head lolled on his shoulders. His arms
dangled. His legs and feet dragged behind him. He had to be tied to the stake
with secure lashings to keep him upright.

Colonel Ko said quietly, “You will not forget
the—ah—subsidy?”

“No, I will not forget. Don’t worry about it, Colonel. I
will keep my word. The funds will be replaced.”

“What do you suppose was the main objective of the attack on
Donaldson’s plantation? The safe? Seventy thousand dollars is a lot of money.
You can adjust your books so its replacement will be explained?”

“You worry too much, Colonel.”

Colonel Ko said, “And Donaldson’s daughter-the girl you
placed in the Willem Van Huyden Hotel—”

“Your people are very good, Colonel.”

“She could tell you nothing?”

“Nothing.” Durell paused. “I would like her to have exit
papers from Palingpon prepared immediately.”

“You will take her with you?”

“I just want her to be free to leave, that’s all.”

“Of course. In two weeks, when the money—”

“Tomorrow,” Durell said.

Colonel Ko thought about it, then nodded. He turned away as
the sergeant of the firing squad came up and saluted. The soldiers were
ordered into a ragged line in the shade of the sapodilla tree. The prisoner
hung limply from the stake in the center of the courtyard, in a bright shaft of
sunlight that pierced the leafy foliage above.

Nothing about the man indicated that he knew where he was or
what was about to happen.

12

DURELL TOOK an Air India flight to Bombay, via
Singapore, and found tickets for a westward Pan Am connection on to Rome. At
the Palingpon Airport that morning, Maggie Donaldson joined him. Her long hair
was still skinned back into its tight,
schoolmarmish
bun at the nape of her neck. He was again surprised at her height.

She squinted into the hot sun and did not smile.

“Hi,” she said.

“A coincidence?”

“No, I found out which plane you were taking.”

“You want to come with me part of the way?”

“All the way, Sam.”

“You should go home,” Durell said.

“I don’t have any home. Just an old aunt in New Haven. All I
have is the money Daddy left me. I’m a rich young woman.” She spoke flatly
as if it didn’t really mean anything to her. “I went to the bank today and they
advanced me enough to keep me going until the lawyers clear everything up.”

Durell said, “What about the old aunt in Connecticut?”

“We’re not that close, Sam. My bad habits rather turned her
off.” Then after a pause she added, “I really have no home, no friends. Except
maybe you.”

“I’m going to Rome,” Durell said.

“Fine. Me, too.”

“I’ll be quite busy.”

“I’ll keep myself occupied visiting the ruins.”

“I don’t want you with me in Rome. You’d be safer back in
New Haven demonstrating to your aunt how easy it is for a girl of strong
character to kick the habit.”

“Nuts. I’m sticking with you.”

13

IT WAS raining in Rome.

Durell lay on the bed in the Hotel Vittoria and read a book
in Mandarin Chinese he had picked up in a stall near the Piazza Navonna. It was
a collection of poetry written by the sixteenth-century Shantung poet Tan
Ch’ien. The poems were pretty little pieces dedicated to nature. He could say
he read it to keep up his linguistic skills, but in fact he found solace
reading Tan Ch’ien’s poems.

“Sam?”

It was warm in the room, and he and Maggie lay naked under
the sheets in the comfortable bed. There were small ornamental balconies below
each of the three tall windows, and through the curtains he could see the old
Roman wall that marked the boundaries of the Borghese Gardens.

“Sam?”

“I’m reading.”

“Where did you learn to make love?”

“Everywhere.”

“Oh, wow.”

She was silent a moment.

“Sam?”

“Yes, Maggie.”

“Isn’t this nice?”

“Yes.”

“I mean the rain.”

“Yes, the rain is very nice.”

“And Rome.”

“Yes.”

“What’s so wonderful about that damn book, Sam?”

“It’s very difficult to read. Either there are mistakes in
the calligraphy or the poet was bombed out of his skull. For instance, in this
passage Tan Ch’ien says the violet willow tree was having intercourse with a
yellow tiger.”

“Why don’t you put that book down and make love to me?”

“Again?”

Maggie unpinned her hair and it was gorgeous, falling in
long rippling waves, as red as firelight seen through a darkling wood.
She turned on her side and stared down at him, her eyes silvery in the rainy
light.

Her strong hip made a beautiful line as she rolled down on
top of him. “Put the book away.”

Her fingers traced the lines of his mouth. He felt the
soft pressure of her breasts on his chest. She wriggled completely atop him.
“What are you really worried about?”

“The telephone,” Durell said.

“Why?”

“It doesn’t ring.”

“Are you just waiting here in bed with me because you’re
expecting a phone call?”

“Pm expecting a phone call,” Durell admitted. “It’s an hour
late.”

“From who?”

“Whom,” he corrected her. “You studied at Yale?”

“From who?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s just overdue.”

“Screw it. No, not the phone. Me.”

Not long afterward, Maggie said, “When I was a kid—which
wasn’t so long ago, I guess, although most fairy tales begin with ‘Long ago,’
or ‘Once upon a time,’ meaning the same thing. When I was a kid, I used to my
myself to sleep and then I’d make myself have a pleasant lullaby dream, you
know, I’d think about what I’d like to have happen to me. You notice, I was not
aggressive, I didn’t dream of making things happen, I dreamed of things
happening to me.” She sat up on the bed. The rain still fell on the streets of
Rome outside. “No, I won’t tell you.”

“Why not?” Durell asked.

“You’ll think I’m stupid.”

“What was your lullaby dream?”

“What’s your real job?”

“I work for the government,” Durell said.

“Do you really mind my tagging along with you like this?”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll get tired of me because I’m so voluptuous.

I wish I were bony and willowy.”

“You’ll do.”

“Anyway, in this childhood dream of once-upon-a-time, I used
to cry myself to sleep by inducing this dream about how I was in deep trouble,
a lonely maiden in distress, and along came a tall handsome hero, maybe about
your height, maybe with dark hair like you, very competent, very capable; and
he’d take me to his place, see—it was raining, like today, but there was a big fireplace—and
he’d straighten everything out for me. I was grateful. Boy, was I grateful. I became
his slave, because I loved him and was so grateful. I adored him. And finally
he came to love me.”

“And?”

“Then he got bored with me.”

Durell didn’t say anything.

Maggie rolled over with her back to him. Her voice was briefly
muffled. “Stupid, huh? Stupid,
pissy
-eyed, maidenly
dreams brainwashed by a male—chauvinist—pig world. Out of touch with where it’s
really at.”

“It’s not women’s lib ” Durell said.

The rain came down.

The telephone did not ring.

“Sam, why did they kill my father?”

“I don’t know,” Durell said.

“Yes, you do. He was the pay-off man for one of your
departments, wasn’t he? He was going to slip some good old Yankee dollars to
Colonel Ko, back there in Palingpon, right?”

“That doesn’t concern you. Eat the pasta. It’s the best
fettucini
Alfredo you’ll find this side of Brooklyn.”

“It’s fattening,” she said. “Of course it concerns me. It
was my father who was killed.”

“And Premier Shang,” Durell reminded her.

“They were after Daddy, though, weren’t they?”

“Maybe.”

“So. Why?”

“I told you, I don’t know yet."

“But you’re going to find out?”

“I’m trying to.”

“Stop looking at the telephone, Sam. How did those
weirdos
know Daddy had the money? And anyway, it wasn’t
such a huge sum. Not really huge. Like, they could have busted a bank and
hauled off a lot more, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Like it was a deliberate slap in the face to you and your
people in K Section, that’s what it was like. Like a special challenge, check?”

“Right.”

“Oh, boy. You admitted something. I’d like a drink. I’d like
to digest what you just admitted.”

He slid out of bed and went to the small bar that the
manager, who was a friend of Durell’s, had arranged in the room. He mixed
negronis for them, using one part Campari, one part
Stravei
vermouth, and one part Beefeater’s gin. He poured them into big brandy
shifters, added ice and a splash of soda, and handed one to Maggie.

 
She tasted.
“Delicious.”

’ “Better than that damned needle?”

“I told you, I kicked it.”

“For real?”

“I’m clean.”

“I’m beginning to believe you,” Durell said. “But these
negronis will bomb you out of your skull, Maggie.”

“Will it make me sexy again?”

“You’re sexy enough.”

“I mean, this afternoon.”

The telephone rang.

14

DURELL went to the telephone. He did not pick it up. After
three rings, it was silent again. The room was quiet, Rain dripped softly from
the copper-green gutters just above the windows. Several taxis argued with each
other in an exchange of horns and dim shouts from the drivers in the street
below. His watch read four o’clock in the afternoon. Durell’s tall, muscular
frame looked loose and angular as he waited beside the telephone table. He was
not conscious of his nudity. He had scars marking most of his darkly tanned
body, among them a long one along his right ribs that went all the way around
under his arm. The scar was not that old, hadn’t formed a hard white line yet.
Maggie hadn’t asked about it. He kept his head slightly cocked to the left, his
dark-blue eyes absent and distant.

The telephone rang again, and this time he picked it up
precisely on the second ring.

“Amberjack?”

“They’re biting beautifully,” Durell said.

“This is Angler.”

“Hello, Mr. Meecham.”