Assignment - Karachi (10 page)

“Sam, may I speak frankly with you? I wish I knew what you were thinking, but—I want to trust you, and 1 may need your help. You don’t believe in the crown of Alexander at all, do you?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters terribly to me. It’s so important that I’m willing to overlook almost anything.”

“Meaning Rudi and Jane?”

“Perhaps. I—he’s my brother, and I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but—I don’t want anything to happer between you and Rudi. Please say that you will help me."

“I can’t promise anything.”

She hesitated. “Do you think Rudi killed her?”

“I don’t know.”

“I suppose you will do what must be done. I know Rudi has made mistakes, but I can’t believe this of him. I don’t want you to believe it, either. Will you at least reserve judgment? I don’t want anything to happen to Rudi—or to you, either.”

She turned impulsively in the shadows by the corrugated tin warehouse and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, moving her body against him. Her lips were astonishingly soft and yielding. She was naive, he thought, to try to buy his good will this way. Yet the excitement existed between them, and he kissed her hard. She seemed surprised, started to draw away then yielded, her body suddenly alive and demanding. Scratch a Ph.D, he thought wryly, and you might find— anything.

Hans Steicher chose that moment to come out of the warehouse behind them. His thick grunt of surprise made Alessa pull free sharply, and something like dismay touched her eyes.

“Oh, Hans—”

“Alessa,” the big man said heavily. He kept his eyes on Durell. “Who is this man?”

She stumbled over the introductions. Hans Steicher was a giant with a face like a slab of stone, with thick dark hair close-cropped, a torso stripped to the waist, gleaming with sweat and rippling with enormous muscles. He wore sandal and a pair of oil-stained khaki shorts—it was hot inside the tin-roofed shed—and his body bore scars that could have come from accidents or wounds. His throat was flushed and angry red as he regarded Durell. He did not offer one of his huge hands to acknowledge Alessa’s fumbling introduction.

“I have been checking equipment,” he said without expression. He moved his head slightly to indicate the crowded bungalow. “I do not like public receptions. And there is much work to do. The two trucks and jeeps are ready, everything is packed; but one more case is due from Linz on this evening’s plane. I think we will be ready to leave tomorrow morning—if the others are.” Hans’ German was strongly tinged with a Tyrolean accent. He said to Alessa, still staring at Durell, “This man is the American agent for the nickel company.”

“Yes,” Durell said, surprising the man with his German. “Do you think I’m wasting my time?”

“Perhaps. But I am only paid to guide you back to S-5.” “You’re not afraid to return there?” Durell asked deliberately.

The huge man looked at him coldly. “It will be dangerous. It is a troubled land, too close to the border between the Chinese and the Afghans. But I am not afraid of anything.” Hans turned back to Alessa, towering over her. In his eyes was a look of dumb, dog-like devotion. “I am sorry if I intruded, Alessa.”

“Please, Hans, I have told you many times, you and I are only good friends—”

“I understand. But this American is more than a friend?” “Of course not.”

“You give your kisses cheaply, then.”

Alessa flushed. She started to reply, then shrugged and touched the big man’s bulging arms. “I am sorry you think so, Hans.”

Steicher looked at Durell. “You will not touch the fraulein again, please. Is it understood?”

Now Alessa looked angry. “Hans, I told you years ago that you cannot act as a watchdog over every man who is with me. I will not tolerate it! You cannot run my life for me, Hans. I will not permit it.”

“I am sorry, Alessa.”

She drew a deep breath. “We must all co-operate. We have a difficult time ahead, and we can do without foolish quarrels between ourselves. Is that clear?”

The big man nodded, but Durell saw nothing change in his blank, slab-like face. They went into the shed together to check the vehicles and the cases of mountain-climbing equipment.

At six o’clock, Durell borrowed one of the cars available to the party, choosing a small Morris, unlikely to attract attention, and drove into the city. Rawalpindi, at a much higher elevation that Karachi, had numerous stone government buildings dating back to the Victorian ’80’s, and wide modern tree-shaded streets. The military were in evidence everywhere, wearing smart Sam Browne belts and polished boots. Durell had showered and changed into a white line suit and shirt and a dark knitted necktie. A few European and tourists were in sight, beginning to awaken from the mid-afternoon lethargy of enervating heat. The shops were open again.

He turned away from the Liaqat Gardens into a twisting maze of crowded streets, like driving through a veil into past centuries. Punjabis, Sikhs, Pathans and Shinwaris with fierce knives in their belts mingled with aesthetic-looking Hindus and proud Arabs in the flowing white robes called
kefeyahs
. Smoke redolent of kerosene, spices and garbage accented the hubbub of languages, of which Urdu dominated.

The way ahead was blocked when he turned right toward the Gijhandra Bazaar. A crowd had gathered threatening at the corner, surrounding a man in a dirty white turban and robe. Durell had to stop the car. Before he could reverse to find another route, the mob suddenly set upon the cornered man with fists and stones, screaming as if on sudden signal. A Pakistani infantry lieutenant went running past, his club merciless on the heads of the mob. Durell started out of the car, then decided to remain where he was. He saw the lieutenant reach the fallen man and crouch over him and shout at the nearest people. They shrank away from him. The lieutenant picked up the man’s naked foot and dragged him over the refuse on the sidewalk and hurled him against the wall of the house. The man’s bald shaven head lolled in unmistakable death. As abruptly the mob had exploded, it was quiet again. The lieutenant saw Durell in the car and walked over to him.

“Your pardon, sir.” He spoke meticulous English. “Did you see what happened?”

“Not exactly. Is the man dead?”

Yes. He was a thief, they say. He stole six rupees from Mohammed Jangahar, the copper merchant.”

“Six rupees?” Durell said. “It’s not much.”

“It is a great deal to Jangahar. Excuse me, I must get a cart to take the body away.”

The dead man lay like a heap of dirty white rags against the wall of the building on the sidewalk. A skinny, skeletal yellow dog sniffed curiously at the corpse’s dirty feet. Nobody else paid any further attention. The incident was over. A man had died, but in the teeming millions, the death of one meant an infinitesimal increase in space for the others.

Swerji Hamad Isquital was a fat, complacent man who had three wives and countless children and grandchildren, all of whom he seemed to forget from time to time in the operation of his business, which was twofold. He ran a teahouse near the Gijhandra Bazaar, with several large brass Russian samovars constantly boiling. His clientele consisted of touchy, giant Pathans, fakirs traveling as holy men, bearded Sikhs in tightly bound turbans, Arabs, Shinwaris and Turkmen. The street outside Swerji’s pavilion swarmed with coppersmith, potters, tobacco venders, prostitutes in black with low veils to show their trademarks in rouge, sellers of live birds, palmists, huckster’s vending cold drinks and candy, thieves, beggars and murderers.

Swerji Hamad’s tea shop in the Gijhandra Bazaar was well known to K Section’s headquarters at No. 20 Annapolis Street in Washington. The fat man was not trusted. His only interest in peddling information was the money he was paid for what he knew. He was known to have passed military data to the Indian government, told the Pakistanis of Afghan plans, reported Chinese troop movements in Tibet. He was useful to every side, since his information was always correct, and hence he remained alive.

Durell had been here once, years ago, but he had no doubt that Swerji Hamad would recognize him again. The fat man never forgot a face, it was said. And he always had information—for a price. Durell was in the market and he had the five thousand dollars he had signed for in Henry Kallinger’s office in Istanbul.

He went in and found a table among the babbling press of customers who smelled of everything under the sun, and each of whom displayed his unique racial traits. Aside from a few curious glances, he attracted little attention. He ordered tea from a Punjabi waiter in dirty shalwars, watched a mullah go by, chanting to himself, wearing the dark green turban that indicated he had made the holy Hadj to Mecca. He waited.

It did not take long.

A small dark-skinned Arab boy with over-long hair and the face and eyes of a girl came to his table and spoke in Urdu. “Isquital sahib wishes the honor of a word with you, sir.”

“Where?”

“In his office, sir. Please follow me.”

Swerji Hamad sat in a heavily cushioned Victorian rocking chair behind a roll-top desk of equal vintage. A half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola served as a paperweight for the papers on the desk being stirred in the draft of a slow-turning, whining electric fan. His round brown face beamed at Durell. Swerji did not speak English. He spoke French, several Pathan dialects, and Urdu. He preferred French. “Ah, M’sieu Durell! Please be at home, yes?”

“It is a pleasure to accept your hospitality, Swerji. You are well?”

“As fat as ever. I suffer from asthma now. And I have a new wife.”

“And your children?”

“They eat me alive. One cannot earn enough money to raise a family decently these days. It is good to see you in our city again, m’sieu. It is good of you to patronize my teashop.”

“I thought I might buy something, being in town,” Durell said.

“Of course.”

“That is, if you have anything to sell.”

“Swerji Hamad has all sorts of merchandise for sale. Of course, some of it is expensive.”

“The price should depend on the quality,” Durell said.

“Ah, but your country is so very rich!” The fat man’s brown eyes were naive, hurt. “Everyone knows that America gives money away so freely, everywhere, to friend and foe alike.”

“And which are you, Swerji Hamad?”

The fat man laughed softly, his belly shaking; he sucked at his bottle of Coke. “I am a friend—of Isquital, yes? I have been expecting you—or one of your distinguished associates. I am quite prepared to offer something quite important, I believe.”

“I want some facts about Herr Ernst Bergmann, the geologist, who disappeared here in Rawalpindi about a month ago,” Durell said.

“Naturally. One expected this, too.” Swerji giggled, then stopped and said solemnly, “And you wish to know nothing about Red Oboe?”

Durell waited just a moment too long to reach for a cigarette and light it. His lean face was impassive. But he swore softly against the shrewdness of Swerji Hamad, knowing that the fat man had not missed the jolt of surprise his words had caused him.

“I’d like whatever you have on Red Oboe, naturally,” he said quietly.

“Ah, you are a man to do business with! You know of this man, then?”

“I have heard of him. Is he in ’Pindi?”

“So it is said.”

“By whom?”

“Rumor-mongers, whores, beggars, respected merchants.” Red Oboe. Durell thought, was only a name in the classification files of K Section’s cabinets. Except for the name, the card was blank, empty of specific data. But there were stories enough, and none of them were pleasant, he thought grimly.

The name had cropped up six years ago, in connection with the theft of some Nike missile data from an Italian-site NATO base. A girl had been involved, the daughter of a Roman baronial family named Ispiglia—a very young girl, in her late teens. She had been found brutally beaten, her face disfigured, her skull cracked. She died whispering her love for a man, unable to describe him except in romantic and idealistic terms. He was called Red Oboe. She had gotten data for him from her brother, an Italian Wing Commander being trained in Nike missile handling. She died before she could say much more.

Red Oboe cropped up as a free-lance peddler of international secrets a few more times. Smuggling arms to the Algerian rebels, setting an explosion in an Oran cafe that killed eighteen people and a French general, selling oil prospecting data in Moroccan interests backed by the Czechs. Involved with Lumumbists in the Congo; selling the Dutch information on Indonesian plans to take over the disputed East Indies territories on Papua. Organizing an underground safe line for East Germans to the West; and by the same token, intercepting and betraying certain important technicians wanted by the East who were induced to use the safe line.

The only fixed pattern of behavior in Red Oboe’s dossier was money and women. There were always women involved. And they always seemed to come out the worse for wear—some of them dead, some maimed.

K Section wanted to fill in their file card and a jail cell with Red Oboe’s mysterious person. But no agent of K Section had ever been directly involved with Red Oboe until the case had ended.

Durell considered Swerji Hamad’s round, bland face.

“Did Red Oboe have anything to do with Bergmann?” he asked.

But the fat teahouse proprietor seemed suddenly to have fallen asleep, pudgy hands folded over his vast belly, like a smiling Buddha. He spoke with his eyes closed. “It will cost you two thousand dollars, American currency, in cash.”

“It may be worth five hundred,” Durell bargained. Bargaining was expected of him. The value of Swerji’s information might depend on it. “That’s the top price these days.” “Two thousand,” Swerji repeated. “I am oppressed by many creditors. A Bengali merchant who deals in cotton swindled me out of a consignment I took on speculation—” “What do you know about Red Oboe?”

“Nothing—yet. I may know something later.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“All right. And Ernst Bergmann?”

“They say the old Austrian gentleman is still alive.” “Here, in ’Pindi?”

“It is what they say.”

“Where?”