Assignment Afghan Dragon (15 page)

Durell got up, holding the box that contained the dragon, and slid through the nearest door just as the first of the attackers gained the balcony and ran for the entrance to the room. The corridor ahead was in darkness. He ran to the end, found a flight of stone steps going up and down. Cooking smells still lingered here, and he guessed the kitchen was directly below. He took two steps down, heard an angry voice in Farsi, heard a shot, a moan, then a yell of command. A massacre was taking place here.

He whirled, took the steps upward two at a time. He came to a wooden door at the top of the stone stairway, slammed against it, and fell through. The warm night air engulfed him. He was on a sleeping terrace under a striped canopy, and a huddle of white-robed figures tumbled backward from him. A woman screamed. He ignored her and moved to the rail. He could see most of the villa’s walled compound from here, and the street that led back toward Meshed. Three or four cars had pulled up around the corner, and two men waited there, obviously taking care of transportation, while the others invaded the villa. Someone saw him leaning over the roof rail and raised a shout of warning. He ducked back and ran for the other side, where the women huddled. They scattered like frightened hens as he approached, perhaps more appalled by their lack of veils in his presence than by what was happening below. Shouts, screams and smashing sounds came from the lower floors.

There was a flat roof two levels below, and a driveway that looked reasonably new. Wooden gates barred the way out. Durell felt hampered by the heavy, ornate box he carried. Without it, he could have climbed down the stone fretwork, but with only one hand free, he did not care to attempt it. He turned away, heard the women scream in chorus as footsteps pounded on the stairs to the sleeping terrace, and then he slid over the rail anyway.

He had to move fast. The women would point him out to his pursuers. He wondered if they had finished off the wounded Nuri Qam, and then he concentrated on saving himself. There was an ornamental hasp on the dragon’s box, and he unbuckled it and hooked it into his belt, then sought a grip on the stone carvings. He lowered himself below the rail, felt for a toehold, and went down another foot or two. The roof of the garage was still ten feet below.

He jumped.

A shout followed him from the sleeping terrace, and then he struck, his knees springy, legs loose, and rolled twice across the roof, the heavy box dangling and banging into his stomach, hitting his elbow as it swung. He came up smoothly and ran for the side of the garage roof. Another drop of about ten feet. He chose a plot of grass on this side and jumped again, arms wide for balance. Again he rolled over, came up running for the garage doors. They were not locked. The darkness inside smelled of motor oil and gasoline and the fresh scent of a new car. The Ferrari loomed like a panther in the shadows. The overhead door rolled smoothly upward without too much sound. He tossed the dragon box into the seat beside him and groped for the keys. The car was a four-seater, with luggage space behind the leather seat backs. The key was in the ignition. He heard the welcome bellow of the powerful racing engine as he turned it, threw in the clutch, shifted. The car rolled forward. Something pinged on the long, sleek hood as he came into sight of those above on the terrace. Their shouts sounded frustrated. The wooden gates loomed ahead. He did not put on the headlights. The barrier came up fast and as he hit it the lock sprung and the panels burst outward, letting him through. He was doing fifty when the front wheels hit the street—

And then something cold pressed against the back of his neck.

“Go just a bit further, Mr. Durell, and then stop.”

He did not need to be told that it was a gun shoved hard against his spinal column. He heard movement from the dark shadows in the back seat behind him. He smelled sweat and perfume, curiously intermingled. Two of them.

“Zhirnov?” he asked.

“Be careful of your driving. Turn right here. Yes, that’s it. Go toward the sports stadium. It’s empty tonight. Yes, now slow down. We don’t want to give the police an excuse for a speeding ticket, now, do we?”

“Anya, is that you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You arranged with Zhirnov to do this?”

“Not exactly, but—”

Zhirnov’s voice was like a slither of cold steel. “Be quiet. Stop the car now, Durell.”

There were empty fields on one side of the road, a row of new concrete apartment buildings in various stages of construction to the left.

“Pull in there,” Zhirnov said. The pressure of his gun on the back of Durell’s neck was relentless. “Yes, just there, the other side of the bulldozer.”

Durell did as he was told. He braked the Ferrari, looked into the rear-vision mirror, saw that the road was empty. No help in sight. Nothing he could do. He swore softly and wheeled the purring car onto the jolting, rutted ground of the construction site.

“Anya—” he began.

“Shut up,” Zhirnov said. “The box, please. The dragon. Nuri Qam had it all the time, eh?”

“Yes.”

“A fat, disgusting thief. Nothing more than a thief.” “And you?” Durell asked. “What are you?”

“No better than yourself, Gospodin Durell. Anya, take the box. You did well. It will help to cancel out the other mistakes you have made. Take it, Anya.”

Durell stopped the car in the shadows of the parked bulldozer. If there were any watchmen on the construction site, they must all be asleep, he thought. He reached for the box beside 'him and handed it backward, careful not to turn his head against the cold warning of Zhirnov’s weapon.

“Anya, I trusted you,” he said.

“No, you did not. Not at any time.”

Her fingers exerted a curious pressure against his as she took the box from his hand. Suddenly he knew that Zhirnov was going to pull the trigger and blow him out of existence. He could smell the man’s intense hostility, smell the immediate danger inside the car. Every nerve in him screamed a protest against instant oblivion. He moved his elbow against the door latch and pressed downward with it as he talked.

“Zhirnov, I hear that Colonel Skoll, Anya’s boss, is in prison somewhere in Moscow. Who do you really work for? Is it General Goroschev? The whole world knows he’s a hawk, anxious to precipitate a showdown with your Chinese neighbors. You want the dragon just to infuriate Peking and bring about that sort of confrontation, don’t you?”

“It is necessary,” Zhirnov said flatly. “Sooner or later, it will come. Now is a better time than later. So be quiet. Anya, open the box.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“It has no key?”

“No key. There must be a secret way to open it.”

Zhirnov said tightly, “Do you know how to open the box, Durell?”

“Yes.”

“Do so, then. It would be a pity to destroy such a fine work of art.”

“Give it to me,” Durell said.

He heard movement in the narrow back seat behind him. At the same moment, for just a moment, the pressure of the gun was eased against the nape of his neck. It was now or never. He moved, pushing his weight against the unlatched car door, and at the same time he fell to the left, out toward the ground. There came an oath, a deafening crash in his ear as Zhirnov’s gun went off. All in an instant, Durell rolled away, heaving himself to one side. He used the car as his shield, aiming for the shelter of the parked bulldozer next to the Ferrari. But Zhirnov was like a huge cat. He came out of the car in a blur of speed, jumping for Durell. His feet hit Durell in the small of the back, sent him forward, his hands scraping on the rough gravel. He tried to turn and rise to face Zhirnov, reaching upward at the same time for the gun in the other man’s hand. He knew in that moment that he had tried and failed. From the corner of his eye he saw Anya come out of the car and. move behind Zhirnov. He could not see the expression on the Russian’s face. He heard Zhirnov grunt, saw the man’s gun rise, and tried to duck. He felt a smashing pain on the side of his neck, struck back, felt a cartilage break in the man’s nose, and then, with Anya’s face swimming in the background, he went down and out.

He awoke and thought he was drowning.

He coughed, and massive pain soared through his head. He tried to sit up against the deluge of water in his face, and strong, quiet hands pushed him back. He finally realized that someone was trying to give him a drink of water and that it was spilling down over his nose and mouth and chin. He opened his mouth and swallowed gratefully. His head pounded harder. His head, shoulder and hips felt as if he were lying on rocks. When he opened his eyes, he saw the night sky and dim stars that reeled and danced away. He closed his eyes and someone said, “Oh, Sam.”

“What?”

“Can you hear me, Sam?”

There was a sound like repetitive thunder in his ears. It was his own pulse. He opened his eyes again and struggled up upon his elbows. The effort seemed enormous.

“I hear you,” he said.

“I am happy. Oh, I am happy. I thought you were dead.”

“Anya?”

“Hush. Call me Annie.”

“Why?”

“The others might hear.”

“What others?”

“Howard and George and Lucy.”

“What are you talking about, Anya?”

“Annie,” she said. “They think I’m American.”

“But you’re not,” he said.

‘‘
They
are.”

“How do you know that?”

“You’ll see. Can you sit up all the way now? And don’t forget, call me Annie.”

“All right. Annie.”

He sat up. It took quite an effort. The throbbing in the back of his head increased, as if a sledge hammer was trying to pound him down upon the rocky bed on which he lay. He took a few deep breaths, and Anya knelt beside him, her face anxious, solicitous, in the gloom. He did not know where he was. He smelled liquor, and realized that someone had poured a bottle of cheap Iranian wine all over him.

Anya said, “I tried to make it look as if you were drunk.”

“Why?”

“For the others. I told you. Howard and George and Lucy. Americans. After I hit Pigam—”

“You hit Zhirnov?”

“Yes, I did.” She bit her lip. “It was to save you. He was going to kill you, of course.”

“Of course,” Durell said.

“And then I got you away from the bulldozer and a car came along, a van, and I signalled to it and they stopped when they saw me. It was Howard and George and Lucy, people I 'had met when we were working at Berghetti’s dig in Afghanistan. I told them at first that you were sick from drinking too much. The bottle of wine was in the Ferrari, along with sandwiches that Nuri Qam must have prepared for you. I had time to pour most of the wine over you. They believed me.”

“And Zhirnov?”

“He got away.”

“And the dragon?”

“He took it with him.”

“You’re lying, Anya.”

“Annie. No, I’m not lying. Please do not call me Anya. They used to know me as Annie. I was out on the road with you, talking to the people in the van, and they were going to Afghanistan again and they offered to give me a lift and to help you, too. When I went back to the area where the car was, Zhirnov was totally gone. And the box with the dragon. Was the dragon really in the box?”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re lying.”

“No, Sam.”

“Why did you save my life?”

She stood up. “If you talk like that, I may regret what I did to help you.”

“Where did Zhirnov go?”

“I don’t know. Into the unfinished apartment building, I think.” She shrugged. “I was not inclined to chase after him, dragon or no dragon.”

He got to his feet. The smell of wine on his clothing made him nauseated. Or maybe it was his headache. He staggered and finally caught some measure of equilibrium. He was in a pebbly ditch about eight feet below the level of the road. It seemed a difficult climb to the top. He breathed deeply again and slowly began to feel better. There seemed to be nothing in sight in the darkness around them. The van was a Chevy, painted a bright yellow, battered and dusty around the edges. Standing about at the front of the van were three young people, smoking and drinking from a common wine bottle. They seemed at ease. The road here was paved, but he saw that a hundred yards farther on it turned to dirt, although it was reasonably well graded.

“Where are we?”

“We’ve gone through the checkpoint at the Iranian frontier at Youssafabad. I showed them your papers; I told them you were drunk. I had your visa and vaccination folders, and Howie has the green auto insurance and triptique papers. There was no trouble at all. Howard seems very competent. Right now we’re on a sort of a no-man’s land, not far from Islam Qala, on the Afghan frontier. About a mile ahead. Are you all right, Sam?”

“No,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I’d like to know where Zhirnov is,” he said. “And the dragon.”

The three young people greeted him casually, with no undue curiosity. They had accepted Anya as an old comrade from the Berghetti dig, where they had worked several weeks together. Howard, the driver and owner of the van, was the tallest and the oldest, with longish hair and knowing, sober eyes. George was shorter, partly bald, and what was left of his hair trailed down his back in a pigtail. He was missing a front tooth. The girl, Lucy, was rather homely, but with a rich and mature figure, and it was plain that she was having the time of her life, enjoying the services of two young men. They all wore blue jeans.

“Hi,” they said in chorus.

“Hello,” Durell said.

“Welcome aboard,” Howard said. “Shall we go on?”

They all seemed well-educated, chattering in the syndromes of their college courses. Each had decided to take a year from their classrooms to travel in Asia. They accepted Durell cheerfully, without restraint, but it was plain that because he was more mature than they, he was considered an outsider. The interior of the van was reasonably tidy—Lucy would one day make some man a good housewife, he reckoned, after this fling. The vehicle was equipped with a small gas stove, bedrolls, and built-in clothing chests.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Howard said. They did not offer their last names. “And lay off the booze, huh? It’s bad stuff out here.”