Assignment Unicorn (8 page)

Durell nodded reluctantly. “Yes. Over at Ostia.”

“Staying with his third wife for a few days. They have an
arrangement, you know, even if they’re divorced. What are you going to do about
the girl?”

“Maggie? She’s no problem,” Durell said.

“See that she stays that way," Meecham said.

When Durell got up to go, Wolfe quietly followed him.

17

DURELL paused at the hotel desk to order the delivery of a
rental car, and then went up to the room, knocked on the door, knocked again,
spoke his name. Maggie opened the door. She had dressed during his absence and
skinned back her long hair again, pinning it into the bun at the nape of her
neck. It made her face look rounder and more severe, and there were little
shadows of strain under her eyes. It had stopped raining, but evening had come,
and the windows were dark now except for the glow of street lights from below.
The hotel was quiet. Maggie had the radio going and he recognized Tchaikovsky’s
String Serenade in C major, the familiar moderato waltz in the second movement.
He was surprised she wasn’t listening to Roman rock. She wore a skirt in plain
brown wool and a pinkish blouse that didn’t quite go with the skirt, and
alligator pumps. The raincoat lay across the foot of the rumpled bed. She said,
“Hi,” and turned her back to him and walked to the window. Durell noticed a
fresh tray of food on the table beside the door, the plate holding the remnants
of
fettucini
,
and another glass of
negroni
. He looked at her straight back, narrow waist, and flaring
hips, and clucked his tongue.

“All right, so I was hungry,” she said.

“No harm.”

“Of course there’s harm. It’s fattening. I shouldn’t eat all
that pasta. But I was nervous, wondering what was happening to you.” She flipped
a vague hand. “I heard the news reports on the radio.”

“I didn’t know you understood Italian.”

“Well, I do.”

“What did they say?”

“It was all about that airport thing, the courier who had
his hand chopped off. They found his hand, by the way, on the runway near the
fence. The unicorns climbed a fence they said nobody could climb, and got away
in cars that were waiting for them. They rushed the courier’s hand to the hospital
with the poor fellow and sewed it back on. I didn’t know they could do that
sort of thing.”

“It works, sometimes, with a good surgeon,” Durell said.
“I’m glad of that. Donatti is a good man. We’ll give him the best of care. Turn
around, Maggie.”

“Why?”

“I want to look at you.”

“I’m all strung out. I need a stick. Anything. Can you get
me a stick, Sam? I really need something.”

“No,” he said. “You told me you were clean.”

“I am. I really am. It’s just that I’m—well, nervous.” She
turned suddenly and he could see the lines of tension around her soft, full
mouth. “I’m sorry I ate that goddam pasta. It’s really fattening. You’re mad at
me now, aren’t you? I’m too tall for you, too big to please you.”

“No, that’s not true," Durell said gently. He took her hands
in his. Her palms were cold and damp. “Has this been happening to you often,
Maggie?”

“Not lately. Not so much. It’s just that when I heard that
radio story about what happened at the airport, I knew right away it was more
of the same thing that happened in Palingpon, when Daddy was killed, and you’re
involved in it, and all, and I wanted—I wanted something."

“No more of that,” he insisted.

“I know."

“Never any more,” he said.

“Yes, Sam.”

“Put on your coat. We’re going to Ostia.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Coney Island. Why are we going
there?”

“I think I’ve been fired,” Durell said. “I’d like to find
out why. And get authority to go on with this.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. Why should they fire you?”

“I’d like the answer to that one, too.”

“You want to take me with you just to make sure I don’t
crack up and do something bad, Sam?”

“No,” he said. He eased it with a smile. “I just think you
might be useful.”

“Go to hell,” she said. But she reached for her raincoat.

18

WILDERMAN was a slob.

His full name was Enoch Marshall Wilderman, and he used it
in its entirety whenever he had to write his official signature on
governmental ISB documents. He was tall, well over six feet, like Durell, but
narrow in the shoulders, fiat-chested, with a prominent, protuberant
belly, over which his loose, old-fashioned pleated slacks sagged from a narrow
black belt. He wore steel-rimmed Franklin glasses and generally peered through
them with his head thrown back, his lanky gray hair in disarray, tossed
helter-skelter. He smoked a stubby pipe, perhaps because he thought it fitted
his image as Assistant Director of ISB, and he had been with Internal Security
from the very first day the special bureau was established by the former
Secretary of State, over General McFee’s objections. In fact, Wilderman had
been replaced only two years ago by John Meecham. Within the ranks of field
agents for K Section there had been some speculation about the reshuffling, but
mostly it was ascribed to politics. The House and Senate committees appointed
to supervise K Section had never been much impressed by Enoch Wilderman’s
autocratic and slovenly manner. Meecham, whose solid ugliness inspired more confidence,
had been recommended by General McFee.

Durell pulled up outside the villa, on a side road within
view of the Mediterranean, about two hours later. The heavy overcast that had
drenched Rome with rain was breaking up. A wind came from the west, over the
sea, and the clouds were shredding,
broomed
away from
the mainland. Now and then a glimmer of moonlight oozed through the night
clouds.

Maggie had been silent on the drive down the
autostrada
from
Rome. Durell had not pressed her to talk.

The moment they were admitted to the villa—Enoch Wilderman
always had half a dozen security men around him—Durell spotted the birds.

Durell did not dislike birds, not even the huge, mangy-looking
macaw that strutted in slow motion across the marble tiles of the foyer floor,
but Wilderman’s peculiar passion for birds disgusted him. Durell was willing to
bet that Wilderman had not occupied the villa for more than twenty-four hours
before the house was stained by droppings. And Wilderman always abandoned his
feathered friends when he moved on elsewhere. They were left for someone else
to clean up.

The villa had once been quite pretentious, but it now
smelled of decay, a scent of mildew compounded with dust, sand, and fungus that
flourished in the damp sea air. The house stood on a low rise beyond the main
amusement-park area of Ostia, on a small coastal road overlooking the sea. There
was a garden abandoned to the weeds, a four-car garage. A series of balconies
protruded from the upper floor.

Wilderman was waiting for them in a back room once designed
as a solarium. It had a domed glass roof. Heavy blackout shades had been
installed and pulled over all the glass. Wilderman did not like to be watched,
especially from outside at night.

“Ah. Mr. Samuel Durell. The Cajun,” he said.

Enoch Wilderman had a surprisingly deep, impressive
baritone. He sat wearing an old gray-flannel robe and old-fashioned
carpet slippers half off his long, bony feet, and he tilted his head back in
his characteristic gesture so that light splintered from his steel-rimmed
Franklins. His smile was thin and small.

“And the young lady,” Wilderman added. His thin shoulders
hunched as if in apprehension. “Miss Margaret Donaldson, I believe. Take a seat
anywhere. Anywhere.” His rich mellifluous voice drowned them in sweet
oil. He cocked his head, much like a ragged old bird himself, and listened to a
sudden burst of squawking from another room in the villa, and then the macaw
strutted in, each leg moving as if in slow motion, leaving a few rather large
pellets behind it. “Ah, Deborah. Behave yourself now. Sit down, Miss Donaldson.
Please do. Some tea, perhaps?”

Maggie looked at Durell’s tall figure. “No, thank you,
sir.”

“You have my sympathies for the terrible tragedy that
overtook your father.”

Two parakeets flew into the room with their peculiarly
labored form of flight, as it their strength were about to give out. One of
them, yellow with blue wings, landed on top of Wilderman’s thatch of gray hair.
On anyone else, Durell thought, it would look ridiculous. But Wilderman paid no
attention to it. The second parakeet landed exhausted on the floor and
rested, huffing and putting, its little breast like a tiny bellows.

“You are not afraid of birds, I trust, young lady,”
Wilderman said, and it was plain that he didn’t give a damn whether she was or
not. “Some people have a phobic dislike of the dear creatures, much as women
are generally terrified of mice. No need to fear them, dear Miss
Donaldson.”

“I don't,” Maggie said.

Wilderman swung to Durell and said abruptly, “You should not
have brought her here to this place.”

“Her father was assassinated.”

"Granted. And you were Hugh’s friend. Hugh was not a
paragon of virtue, you know, according to our rules and regulations. You could
be considered suspect, too. But the girl does not belong here, much less within
sight of me.” Wilderman preferred his anonymity these days. However, since she
is with you, Durell, she might as well stay. As you say, she may be considered
to have a vested personal and emotional interest in the matter. But you know as
well as I how debilitating such emotions can be. You have met with our esteemed
ISB Director, John Meecham, of course, in Rome. I understand you object to our
man Wolfe, much as you objected to poor Charley Lee. Regrettable. Impulsive.
Not conducive to operational efficiency. Wolfe is outside on a Lambretta. He
may suffer his death of cold in this sea wind. Would you prefer that he be
brought in?”

“No,” Durell said. “He can stay out there. I wanted to talk
to you, sir!”

“I know all about it. You have postulated some rather
thought-provoking and intriguing theories about the series of misfortunes that
have lately befallen K Section. You’ve stepped into my bailiwick, Mr. Durell,
and I may or may not happen to agree with your ideas, but I tend to side with
Meecham about sending you back to your regular field assignments.”
Wilderman leaned forward slightly, hunching his shoulders until they stood up
bonily
, like a vulture’s. “I know that you and most other field
agents in K Section resent me and my work. Perhaps you consider it a scavenging
operation. Perhaps it is. But scavengers are necessary to keep matters
sanitized. You and the other field men are often under great pressure

and stress, and sometimes temptation. A man is only human,
after all. No amount of indoctrination at K Section’s Farm can knock out a
man’s ordinary drives and motivations completely.”

“You sound afraid of us.”

“I am,” Wilderman said. “I sometimes liken myself to being
in a cage full of tigers. If you consider that a compliment, accept it as such.
I know you, Durell. You can kill. You can handle grenades, thermite bombs, and
for all I know, dismantle tactical nuclear weapons. You can kill with a knife,
a rolled newspaper, your thumbs, a hatpin. Poisons are not alien to you. And
you resent surveillance behind your back. Well, my work may not be pleasant,
but it is necessary. For example, you claim friendship with Hugh Donaldson, do
you not?”

Durell’s blue eyes looked black. “Yes.”

“And you are screwing this young woman here, his daughter, a
drug addict, to a fare-thee-well. You have already been advised that
Donaldson’s accumulated fortune is a subject of suspicion. Ergo, you could fall
under the same shadow.”

“To hell with you,” Durell said.

“One moment. Another example. Your dossier shows certain
activities in the past, for instance, in cooperation with a certain Colonel
Cesar Skoll, of Moscow’s KGB. You have been cited several times as stating that
Skoll is your friend.”

“Not a friend. An ally of expedience.”

“How do we know there is nothing more‘? How do we know you
are not paving a safe haven for yourself if you ever decide to go over the
wire? Can you be trusted? Should you not be observed, watched, considered with
a certain suspicion?”

“You sound like the Gestapo.”

“Not at all. A check and counter-check. You are intruding in
a field of security that does not concern you."

Durell drew a deep breath. “No, sir, what I want from you is
to make certain arrangements in regard to the next transfer of K Section
funds.” He had let Wilderman anger him, and he regretted it. He watched the
green, yellow and red macaw carefully drop a pellet on Wilderman’s left slipper
as the bird stepped over the man’s skinny, outstretched legs. Wilderman’s
posture, slumped again in the chair, made his belly protrude even more than
usual. Durell said, “Sir, We’ve come to know something about these people,
whoever they are. Call them the unicorns, for convenience. We know that they
are informed about our cash transfers and subsidies to various political
figures, such as Colonel Ko in Palingpon, and to the GGI here in Italy,
whom we’ve infiltrated with some good people. The money will have to be
replaced, of course. But most important, the unicorns seem to know of our cash
transfers ahead of time. And they are ready and waiting for us. Hypnotized or
bombed out of their skulls, they’re ready. So we can assume there is a serious leak
somewhere.”

Wilderman’s gray eyebrows lifted. His baritone voice was
mild. “A leak, Durell?”

“Somewhere. They’re being tipped off. Or have access to
information about K Section’s operations. Which may mean that even the Internal
Security Bureau has been infiltrated. Or perhaps it’s in Josh
Strawbridge’s Finance Section. I don’t know yet.” Durell paused and looked at Maggie,
who in turn was watching the yellow and blue parakeet pick at strands of
Wilderman’s thick gray hair. He said, “I don’t want to be handled with kid
gloves, or shoved off into another assignment, just when things may break for
us. I don’t think General Dickinson McFee would want that, either. He assigned
me as investigating officer to check into what happened in Palingpon, and
it’s tied in with what happened here in Rome, and what will surely happen again
elsewhere, until it’s stopped.”