Assignment - Karachi (2 page)

Nobody was in sight, wherever he looked.

He would have to walk back.

If he could.

He squatted down beside Ali as the man’s eyelids fluttered Ali whispered, “You have water?”

“No.”

“Good. So we will both die.”

“What harm did I do to you, Mahmud?”

“You are here. You plan to go north. It is enough.” “What do you know of why I am here? I came as a friend.”

“No. As an enemy.” Mahmud Ali shook his head rolling the back of his skull with a grisly sound on the hard stone floor. A shadow of wings silently crossed the top of the tower. The buzzard had returned. “I know nothing more. I was to kill you. I obey orders.”

“Whose orders?”

The man was silent.

“Donegan’s? Colonel K’Ayub?”

Ali made a spitting, negative sound of hatred.

“You are not one of the colonel’s mountain patrol?”

“I come from the mountains. This place is a hell, curse by Allah. I despise it. But I was sent here and I did what was told to do.”

Durell switched suddenly to Pakhusti dialect. “You come from Mirandhabad, don’t you?”

“It is my home, yes—” The man cursed. “You speak my tongue. You tricked me. But we will both die. My job is done.”

“I think not,” Durell said. “We’re going to walk back. “I cannot walk.”

“You will walk with me,” Durell said.

IN ISTANBUL, the CIA man at the drop was Henry Kallinger, a lean and stoop-shouldered man with the face and eyes of an accountant. Kallinger had taken to a bushy Turkish military moustache, and his eyes were heavy-lidded, drooping and apparently sleepy, so that you saw only a kind of darkness under the bushy brows, with nothing but a sense of tiredness, of patient exhaustion in his face, like that of an overworked draft animal.

In the small room overlooking the Bosphorus, where you could see the little ferries plying back and forth between Europe and Asia, above the warehouse sheds redolent with the scent of Turkish tobacco—Kallinger’s cover was that of an exporter of tobacco to all parts of the world, and he had lived in Istanbul for twenty-two years—Durell had listened to the man’s slow, even apologies.

“I’m sorry, Cajun. I know you’re due back in the States. But we need you. This one has what our happy bureaucrats call top priority. And what hasn’t? Everything is classified, everything grows out of a crisis, like mushrooms in a bed of horse manure. They don’t stop erupting.”

“You asked me if I remember any Pakhusti dialect and Urdu,” Durell said. “Is that where I’m going?”

“How many languages do you really speak, Sam?” “Eleven,” Durell said. “And as many more dialects. You know all these things. You have my dossier. Everybody has it.”

“Yes. But I’ll bet ours isn’t as complete as the one at No. 2 Dzherzinsky Square, in Moscow.”

“Let’s hope there are a few pages missing in the MVD files,” Durell said quietly. “Why Pakhusti province? It’s up in the high Himalayas, without much frontier to separate it from Pakistan, Afghanistan and—last, but not least—Sinkiang Province of China.”

Kallinger sighed. “Exactly. Precisely. Where else?”

“There’s always trouble in that area. The Pakistan government usually handles it.”

“There’s also nickel up there,” Kallinger said.

“Nickel?”

“Apparently quite a lot. Enough to make up for what we’ve lost in Cuba. A very strategic metal, Sam. It goes into all kind of engines and machinery, all kinds of rocket components. Little by little, if we continue to lose the world’s resources, we lose the Cold War. Strategic Materiels people are in a flap. It’s part of the over-all strategic concepts, to borrow another one of the Pentagon’s damned phrases. More mushrooms, to me.”

“I’m not a geologist,” Durell said.

“Can you climb mountains?”

“I’ve done it.”

“That’s all we need you for. The nickel ore was found and lost again. The original geologist’s survey was stolen, lost or destroyed—or sold to the Chinese, who know about it—God knows how. They’ll be pushing patrols over the hills from Sinkiang to grab it by military force, if they get there first. Standish Nickel, Incorporated, with the blessings of our State Department, has already concluded a contract with the Pakistan government to exploit the nickel ore—if it can be found again. And it’s got to be found, Cajun. You’ve got to find it.”

“Pakistan doesn’t exercise much control over the Pak-hustis,” Durell said. “And the Pathans are in the way, besides the Chinese just over the hill, as you suggest.”

“You’ll have a military escort all the way with the expedition.”

“What expedition?”

“To S-5, naturally. That’s where the nickel is supposed to be. S-5 happens to be a mountain that’s also called Alexander’s Crown. Ever hear of it?”

“No,” Durell said.

“Read this, then,” Kallinger said.

He pushed two newspaper clippings across the small table to Durell. Durell read them in the light that cams through the window from over the Bosphorus.

The first was from
Al Ahram
, an English-language Pakistan newspaper of reasonably good repute:

—Rawalpindi, June 7. It has been reported that three survivors of the ill-fated Austrian mountain-climbing expedition to explore and scale Alexander’s Crown, the frontier peak labeled as S-5 in Pakhusti State, are on their way back to this city. Three male members of the group are known to be dead, either through accident or difficulties with local dissident tribesmen. The survivors, two men and a woman, are expected in Rawalpindi in a matter of days.

The second clipping was from the New York
Times
, dated two weeks later:

—Karachi, June 22—Two survivors of the von Buhlen expedition to the mountainous State of Pakhusti arrived here today and made immediate preparations for a new assault on S-5. Interviewed here today, Alessa von Buhlen merely stated that there had been no success in her attempt to verify the fabled story of Xenos’ march to recover the crown of Alexander the Great.

Hans Steicher, the well known Alpine guide who led the expedition, as well as two other missions of British and Italian origin in the past years, had no comment on the disastrous failure of the romantic attempt.

The adventurers’ assault on S-5 was based on an obscure legend long known to military historians of Alexander the Great’s Asian conquests. Professor Damon D. Johnstone of Columbia University, a specialist in Hellenic antiquities of Alexander’s time, denied any possible truth to the tale of Xenos’ march with a thousand men to retrieve a crown yielded to the Macedonian conqueror by a king of the Indus over two thousand years ago. Fragments of Buddhist writings and fables that survive the Mogul conquests in later centuries contain obscure allusions to the massacre of the thousand foot soldiers of Alexander’s army, but these are generally discounted as local folklore, Professor Johnstone said.

The two survivors, who will be joined by selected others, remain in Karachi for a new expedition to be immediately reorganized for a second attempt at S-5, according to Dr. Alessa von Buhlen.

Kallinger yawned and brushed his shaggy Turkish moustache as Durell returned the two clippings. “The first of these came by courier from Rawalpindi yesterday. The New York
Times
item was in a batch of stuff from Washington this morning. I put it all together for you, Sam.”

“I notice there’s nothing in these clippings about nickel,” Durell commented.

“Naturally. What really happened was that this climbing expedition after alleged ancient treasure ran into hard luck all the way. Bad weather, defecting porters, alienated tribesmen—even some Chinese military patrols sticking their noses over the Sinkiang border. The frontier at that point is rather vague, you know. Even so, they all came down off S-5 alive, according the Pakistan military report. There was trouble with the Pakhustis under their Emir at Mirandhabad for some time—the Emir has been pushing for autonomy, backed by the Pathans, Afghanistan, and the Chinese. But the climbers were all definitely alive—when they came down off S-5—five men and the girl, Alessa von Buhlen. Her doctorate is in ancient history, by the way. It was afterward that things began to happen. Disappearances. And murder. Only Hans Steicher and Alessa—who happens to be built on the order of the Valkyries, by the way, no matter what her university degrees—pity I don’t have a snapshot for you, Sam—and Bergmann, a geologist, made it back to Rawalpindi.”

“Then Bergmann disappeared,” Durell said. “The Times says there were only two survivors—Alessa and Hans Steicher.”

Kallinger nodded. Out on the Bosphorus, a tug hooted. It was growing dusky in the tobacco agent’s office. Lights gleamed like iridescent jewels on the European side of the straits.

“The Pakistan security police report two attacks since, one on Alessa, another on Hans. A knife thrown at Alessa, and a mugging job on Steicher. No permanent damage. Obviously, someone wants to silence everybody who hunted abominable snowmen, nickel and jewels on S-5, eh?”

“You think it’s because of the nickel ore?” Durell asked.

“Bergmann made a report, and a map, and both disappeared with him. You’ll have to find out. We’re reasonably sure the alleged treasure wasn’t found, and even if it were, we aren’t interested. But Bergmann was excited about the nickel strike, and talked about it before he vanished. Washington wants to know what was really found up there. Somebody is trying to stop these people from going back—maybe the Emir at Mirandhabad, maybe the Chinese, maybe your friends at No. 2 Dzherzinsky Square. The second expedition fitting out now has the immediate blessings of American and Pakistan interests. And there’s more.”

Kallinger took an envelope from his desk and handed it to Durell. It contained five thousand dollars.

Durell smiled. “You’ve counted it?”

“Every penny. I’m a businessman. It should cover expenses.”

“Who’s covering the cost of the new expedition? They take a little more to finance than a ride on the Staten Island ferry.”

“Sarah Standish.
The
Standish. She’s going along. You’re going, too, as Sarah’s bodyguard. We’d hate to have anything happen to her.” Kallinger’s dark, sunken eyes might or might not have been amused. “The richest, nickel-plated member of Park Avenue society. The world’s best-known business woman. Head of Standish Nickel, unromantic, hornrimmed glasses, and the despair of every couturier in Paris, Rome and Houston. She’s in love, Sam.”

He waited.

Kallinger seemed disappointed. “She’s in love with Alessa von Buhlen’s brother, Rudi. I have a thumbnail dossier on him for you. He’s in Karachi now, with Miss Standish. Hans Steicher is in ’Pindi. Rudi and Sarah may be enjoying a pre-marital honeymoon. I wouldn’t know. Maybe morals change when you get up to eight hundred millions, give or take a few score. Although I must say, Sarah Standish has never had a breath of scandal touch her, giving her the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, she’s financing the new expedition and going along. Do you want to read Rudi von Buhlen’s dossier?”

“Tell me,” Durell suggested.

“You look annoyed, Cajun.”

“I don’t look forward to being a bodyguard and a nursemaid.”

“It’s all in the day’s work, Sam.”

“Not my kind of work,” Durell said.

“Think of all that money!” Kallinger protested.

“You think of it, Harry. It may be big in your businessman’s mind, but not to me.”

“She’s in danger. Look what happened to the original expedition. We can’t take chances; we can’t let anything happen to her.”

“If she’s worried, let her hire an army. She can afford it.” Durell paused. “She can do whatever she likes.”

“But she isn’t worried, Cajun, that’s the trouble. Our State Department people had a hell of a time with her. She insists she’s only interested in the historical and archeological aspects of what’s on S-5. Nickel in itself doesn’t interest her. That’s for the employees, she says. As for danger, she feels that Rudi is company and protection enough for her.” 

Durell’s mouth tightened. “Tell me about Rudi.” Kallinger laughed dourly. “Rudi looks more English than Austrian—wears his hair long, English style, over his ears. Pretty good mountain-climber, too—in the Alps. Full name is Rudolf Wolfgang Freihausen von Buhlen. Age 31, bom Vienna, father a British legation colonel, now deceased, mother a baroness of the Hapsburg nobility, living on pensions and nostalgic dreams of Emperor Franz Josef’s time. Rudi was educated at the Hausfulden Gymnasium, then the Sorbonne, and took a graduate degree at Oxford. He lives extravagantly. No political identifications, but an uncle was connected with the
Rote Kapelle
—the “Red Orchestra” affair in 1942, a German Communist espionage network run by old and prominent German families. It took guts, under Hitler. The
Rote Kapelle
people were uncovered by the Abwehr and most of them were executed, charged with high treason, along with a grandson of Admiral von Tirpitz. They were hung from meat hooks borrowed from a Berlin abattoir. Hitler enjoyed the view. Anyway, so much for the uncle. Rudi professes no politics. Interested Cajun?”

“Go on.”

“Rudi drives a Ferarri, races at Cannes, climbs the Alps. Married an English heiress, Elizabeth Dunning-Broome, in ’55, divorced in Mexico City in ’59. No financial settlement. Gambles a lot, plays in Riviera society, arrested twice on vice charges, both times dismissed, and is reputed to have slept with a hell of a lot of women. He met our Nickel Queen in Switzerland last winter at a skiing party. Sarah Standish finally fell. She’s in love, as I said.”

“I doubt that,” Durell said. “I’ve met her.”

Kallinger nodded. “I know you have. That’s why the long arm of K Section plucked you out of your cozy villa down the coast and interrupted your vacation—and your love-life with that Italian brunette, of which I know officially nothing, mind you—and is ordering you to Karachi to look after Sarah.”

Durell said one word, briefly.

“I gather from that,” Kallinger said, “that you don’t like the job with Sarah. Have you counted that five thousand dollars, Sam?”

“I don’t have to, if you did.”

“Then sign this receipt.”

Durell signed. “What about Alessa von Buhlen—the Valkyrie with a doctorate?”