Assignment - Quayle Question (16 page)

“Durell?”

He heard Plowman’s thin voice come out of the darkness to his left. Nothing. He turned and walked toward the ramp. The scissors-type gate was not locked. The hinges squeaked slightly as he shoved it aside.

“Up here, Durell!”

In the center of the amusement pier was something advertised as a Sky Needle, a ride featuring cabs that lifted upward two hundred feet on tracks that spiraled around the red-painted central cylinder. At the very top of the shaft was a railed platform and a small structure reached by an iron ladder, housing the machinery. The fog all but hid the high top of the shaft. The voice had come from up there. Durell moved under an angle of the pier so he was not directly in line with the small platform high above.

“Eli?”

“I want to talk to you, Cajun!”

“Not like this.”

“One minute, please.”

Durell took out his gun and held it ready. The sound of the surf rolling in among the outer piers echoed louder in the dark fog. He moved past the admission booth, walking slowly along the wooden wall. Ahead, the pier’s deck held a giant slide reaching almost as high as the Sky Needle. He moved faster, toward a triple flight of stairs leading up to the top of the slide. There were other amusement devices: a hall of mirrors, a kind of trampoline, a ferris wheel, and a circular ride in which the patrons stood in cages and were whirled around by centrifugal force. He took the steps to the top of the giant slide three at a time, his feet silent. He heard a small scraping sound behind and below him, and saw Plowman come out of a small door, built like a bulkhead, in the base of the Sky Needle.

“Durell?”

Plowman looked thinner and smaller than Durell remembered him in Sumatra. There was a dim night light over the main housing of the pier, and his dark shirt and slacks were marked against the garish red of the high cylinder. His round face looked very ordinary. His head turned to right and left, searching. Durell could not see a weapon in the man’s pale hands. It was difficult to believe —and this was one of Eli’s greatest assets—that such an ordinary man was one of the world’s best professional killers. You would never give Plowman a second glance, passing him on the street or standing next to him at a bar.

Durell did not reply to Plowman’s call. He saw the man’s shirt flap in the wind, the tails out from the dark slacks; he remembered that Eli always wore an armored vest that covered him from chest to crotch. In Sumatra, that vest had saved his life, although Durell had left him for dead. He remembered Eli’s preoccupation with death, the lack of any guilt or remorse for his victims. No one had liked him. Everyone was afraid of him.

“Durell?”

“I’m here,” Durell called.

Eh turned sharply, outlined against the towering cylinder. In the distant glow of a single lamp, Durell saw his lips part in a tight grin.

“Ah. On the slide, eh?”

“Keep your hands hi sight, Eli.”

“We have no quarrel, Cajun. You’ve done very well. You’ve come a long way on the trail. I could have killed you several times, you know. I may still do it.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“You’re a careful man. Is McFee after me?”

“He hates rogues. So do I. Who employs you now, Eh?”

“You might be surprised.”

“Someone I know?”

“Oh, yes. Intimately. It’s a big project, you see. Bigger than you can imagine. It’s a matter of achieving power. Of shaping history, Durell. You ought to be a part of it.” “Are you making me an offer?”

“Name your price.”

“I want Deborah Quayle.”

“You might get her.”

“Alive,” Durell added.

“That could be arranged, if Quayle signs over Q.P.I. to my people.”

“You won’t get that.”

Eli Plowman sounded quietly urgent. “Durell, you can name any other price. We want you with us. Otherwise we’ll kill you, you know. And Deirdre, too. Not very pleasantly. I know all the ways, Cajun. You’re aware of that. So be sensible. You’ll be treated very well, I assure you. I hold no grudges. It’s just a matter of business, that’s all.”

“You know better than to try to buy me.”

“I’ve been asked to make the attempt.”

“I don’t go into anything blindly. Who employs you?” “At this point, I couldn’t tell you that. Come over the wire, Cajun. You won’t regret it.”

“You’re finished, Eli, and don’t know it. K Section will catch up with you sooner or later. They won’t sleep or rest until you’re finished. You’ve subverted too many good people for McFee to forgive and forget.”

“I’m interested in you, not McFee.”

“To hell with you,” Durell said.

“That is your last word?”

“No. My last word is goodbye, Eli.”

The man down below shrugged. “It’s your call, Cajun.”

Plowman moved in a blur of speed. His gun had been up the sleeve of his loose shut, and as he raised his hand, as if in a parting salute, he shook the weapon loose into his fingers. The shot was silenced, but Durell was already moving on the platform atop the giant slide before he saw the muzzle flame. The bullet hit the pipe railing with a thin screech and ricocheted out to sea. Durell’s gun jumped in his hand as he fired in return, but Plowman

had already stepped back into the doorway to the interior of the Sky Needle. Durell flung himself onto the slide, let gravity and the impulse of his jump take him down the slippery waxed chute to the deck level. The bulkhead door to the cylinder was closing when his feet hit the planking. He was up, rolling to one side. Then he sprinted across the narrow railed walk past the admission booth. His single shot had raised no alarm. He did not know if there was a watchman on the pier. At this season of the year, the place was ready to close down for the winter.

The NO ADMITTANCE sign was painted in large red letters. He pushed down on the lever handle, standing to one side, and pulled the steel door open. Footsteps slapped on the iron treads of a spiral stairway going up toward the hoisting machinery. A single light shone high on the platform supporting the lift, making Plowman’s shadow move around and around the interior of the metal shaft. Durell started up, taking the steps several at a time. There was only a thin rail to protect him from the drop into a dark pit below. He wasn’t sure if the cylinder was anchored in the sea bottom or not; he thought he heard the gurgle and slap of sea water in the darkness below.

It was a long, dizzying climb. Halfway up, he paused and listened for Plowman’s footsteps. They were silent. The dim light, apparently left on permanently, gave him no clue now to Plowman’s location on the spiral treads. Then he heard Plowman’s gun again, louder within the confines of the big cylinder. The man was much higher, almost to the level of the hoisting platform, and across from him. The bullet made a loud spang! against the curving steel plates next to Durell. He did not fire back. The diameter of the cylinder was about fifteen feet. He could feel the structure sway slightly in the night wind, but obviously the guy wires were secure enough. He suddenly raced on, climbing upward. A shadow flickered in the gloomy, cavernous interior as Eli reached the upper platform and ducked under the night light. Durell put everything into a last burst of speed to catch up with the man. Then all at once he saw a dark rectangle open up there; Eli had found an outer door; and at the same time he heard the dull rumble of machinery starting up. The tower vibrated as one of the cars started up from the bottom platform, making a steady, spiraling climb up on the tracks attached to the needle’s outer skin.

“Eli!” he called.

Durell’s breath echoed over the sound of the motors put into operation. The steel plates vibrated against his back as the car passed him, invisibly, on the outside of the Sky Needle on its way to the top. Plowman was planning to meet the climbing car. Durell moved upward, reached the hatchway, started to haul himself through, then drew back as Plowman fired a third time. He felt a stinging sensation as the bullet grazed his forearm. The next moment the hoisting machinery reversed itself and the car, after a moment’s pause, started its downward circular trip. It traveled much faster than Durell could retreat down the spiral interior stairs. He wriggled through the hatch, stood beside the clanking, spinning gears of the hoist, and watched the taut cables vibrate. The night bulb shone directly overhead, showing him the red safety switches. He thumbed one marked STOP and the motors whined to a halt. He had stopped Plowman in the car halfway down to the deck of the amusement pier.

The hatch by which Plowman had escaped was still open. Durell leaned out high above the pier and the slashing black sea below. Plowman had opened the car door and was climbing down the slats of an exterior ladder. Durell could not bring his gun to bear on him. He looked up at the taut cables supporting the cylinder. There was a pile of waste rags beside the winch inside the motor chamber. He caught up a handful, wrapped his hands in them, reached for the nearest guy wire, and swung out into space.

For a moment or two, his slide down the cable was too precipitous. If he struck the deck at this speed, he would be killed, or at least stunned and left to Plowman’s mercy. He swung his legs upward and out, hooked one knee over the slanting cable, tightened his thighs against the steel. Pain from a friction burn slashed into his belly. But his momentum was checked. His feet hit the pier deck seconds later, just as Plowman dropped from the exterior ladder at the bottom of the Sky Needle. The man saw him between the tower and the landward end of the pier and began to run the other way, toward the railing over the dark, heaving sea.

Durell raised his gun, steadied it in both hands, started to squeeze the trigger. He checked himself. He wanted Plowman alive.

The outermost end of the pier was even darker than the rest of the place. White-painted amusement buildings, shuttered booths, more rides, all cluttered the wide deck. Under the planking, the swells of the sea hissed and rumbled amid the concrete and wooden pilings.

Plowman paused, crouched, lifted a hatch, and dropped through. Durell crossed the pier, found a companion hatch, lifted it with care. A slatted wooden ladder led him down under the deck. The noise of the sea engulfed him. It was almost totally black down here. The only light came from the distant lamps on the Boardwalk, far behind him. The catwalk was slippery with sea moss. The big columns supporting the pier were encrusted with barnacles over scaling paint. To touch them meant getting cut as if by a thousand small razors. He looked for Plowman, could not see him in the strange, dank gloom. The system of catwalks extended all the way to the end of the pier, with occasional cross planks only a few feet above the hissing rise and fall of the cold sea.

He could not see Plowman. It was a cat-and-mouse game now in the half-gloom, but Eli had the advantage. Eli wanted to kill him; but he himself wanted Eh alive, if possible. He crouched down to avoid striking the great beams overhead that supported the pier planking. Plowman had moved outward on the pier, unwilling to expose himself to Durell’s cross fire. Durell thought he saw the man’s shadow momentarily, found a cross walk, and moved lightly across it, aware of the treacherous, moss-covered footing. Now he was definitely between his quarry and the beach. Plowman was trapped. There was only one last crosswalk going back to the one he had just left.

The concrete piers and cross-braces under the pier made a latticework of hiding places. And it almost trapped him.

Plowman was waiting for him behind the next column. The man was not a coward. Durell saw the knife-blade flicker an instant before Eli struck. His hand shot up, caught at Plowman’s wrist, tried to deflect the blow. Plowman stepped back, breath hissing, tried an underhand stab at his belly. Durell came up against the barnacle-encrusted column, felt his shirt rip, kicked at the knife, caught it on his heel, slipped on the moss and went down. The knife fell into the sea below. Plowman tried to kick him, slipped also, staggered against the flimsy rail. The rotted board broke under the impact and he started to fall, caught at Durell’s arm, tried to pull himself back. His eyes gleamed, reflecting the distant light from the beach. A comber came in toward them, breaking spray and filling the underside of the pier with loud thunder. Salt spray hit Durell's face.

“Give it up, Eli.”

“Sam, listen—”

Plowman had lost his gun somewhere. Durell still had his .38. Plowman’s mouth opened and closed. Durell said, “Tell me the name of your boss, Eli.”

“Sam, there’s millions in it for you—”

“Not interested. You can tell me—”

Plowman made one last eflort to escape. He tried to chop at Durell’s arm, and at the same time kicked for his groin. The man was like a small bull, stronger than his appearance indicated, with the speed and devices of a practiced hand fighter. Durell felt a blow low in his belly. Pain shot through him and he saw Plowman suddenly grin; his gun flew free into the water below. Neither was armed now. But Plowman was too eager. He was also accustomed to doing his killing by trickery and device. Durell slammed his forearm against Eli’s neck, driving the man’s head against the barnacles on the concrete pillar. Plowman screamed as the flesh of his face was scraped away. His movement was convulsive, instinctive. He jumped backward and his feet shot out from under him, slipping on the wet moss that covered the planking. His back was to the broken plank rail of the catwalk. He went over into the darkness, his round face showing surprise, his eyes wide, suddenly despairing.

There was a small splash in the deep sea below.

And suddenly Durell was alone on the catwalk.

He pulled himself up and stared down at the heaving black water down there. He could not see anything. Then he glimpsed a pale blob that might have been Plowman’s face.

“Durell, the Messenger said—”

The thin, echoing voice was abruptly cut off as a large comber smashed in among the columns and struts under the pier. Plowman was lifted up and thrown against the seaweed and barnacles encrusting the support pillar. Durell heard the thud of his body against the concrete, saw a single hand rise above the seething, hissing foam; and then it vanished.