Assignment - Karachi (7 page)

He spoke in German. “Leave me alone. Don’t interfere.”

“It is for your own good, Rudi. Are you in trouble again?”

“It’s nothing!” he said angrily. “Go away. I’m dressing.”

She remained in the doorway between their rooms. The house was quiet. They had both watched Durell enter the house, and they knew he was with Sarah Standish down oh the first floor, and Rudi knew that Alessa had been impressed by the American. He looked at her curiously, a little afraid, and more irritated by her aloof control than usual. Her tall, magnificent figure was strangely at odds with her intellectual capacity, her scholarly doctorate in history. He knew she had never been in love, although he suspected some affairs. It would be useful, occasionally, to have the details to throw back at her when she was like this, he thought.

Her face was a softened reflection of his, lovely and smooth. Her blue eyes were larger, wider; her brow not quite so wide and severe as his own. Their hair was the same, pale and tawny, and she wore hers in a simple, boyish cut that was practical and yet gave the shape of her head a delicate appeal. She wore a blue silk dress that accented her eyes, white shoes, an antique cameo pin above her left breast. Her mouth was full and sensitive. She had always been smarter than he; he had played away his years of education while she had used them to work hard and pull something out of the wreckage of their family life and fortune after the fall of the Third Reich. She was apolitical, he knew. Her interests lay in the old conquests and cultures of the past, the ancient forces which once swept the world and which, to him, were dead and useless.

They did not understand each other; they never had. Yet he was fond of her and irritated because he did not really know how Alessa felt about him.

She came into his room and watched him dress, assuming the intimate prerogatives of their family relationship. But he was nervous, in no mood for the lecture he knew was coming.

“Alessa, I’m in a hurry. If you have any advice, give it quickly. I probably won’t take it, anyway.”

She said quietly, “Rudi, you are a fool. You never stop, do you? You will wind up like Uncle Franz, your ideal.” “What was wrong with Uncle Franz?” he demanded.

“He was executed for a stupid Communist conspiracy. He died in such an ugly way—I don’t want this to happen to you.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t.”

“I know how you admired him, Rudi. But I remember him, too. And I’ve read how he led such a Bohemian life after World War I, going about in a black sweater and flannel slacks, an intellectual light in Berlin in those days, speaking against National Socialism, eager to set the world aflame with radical ideas. He was a romantic, and he died with a meat-hook under his chin.”

“Be quiet,” he said uneasily. “Uncle Franz was a great man.”

Alessa lit a cigarette. She said softly, “Tell me the truth, Rudi—are you still the Red Oboe?”

He whirled, shocked. “What?”

“The
Rote Kapelle
of Uncle Franz—the Red Orchestra— is still alive in you, is it not?”

“No!” he shouted. “Where did you hear that name?” “The Red Oboe? I heard of your silly game years ago, when you adopted the cover name of an orchestral instrument. Using your travels and playboy activities to send scraps of information to the Soviet Embassies. It was dangerous, but you were young; I thought you would get it out of your system as something romantic you would grow out of as you matured.”

Rudi looked dangerous. “How long have you known about all that—that nonsense, Alessa?”

“I knew about it from the beginning.”

“It’s all over,” he said. “It was just a phase.”

“Truly?”

“As you say, it was romantic. I idealized Uncle Franz. It was fun, but I’ve settled down. I’m practical now, like you, Alessa. After all, look at my engagement to Sarah.” “Are you in love with her, Rudi?”

He shrugged. “Marriage is a practical matter.”

“She is devoted to you. She is a fine woman. I would not like to see you hurt her, and I know how you treat women, Rudi. Is it only her money that interests you?”

“Money is important. You are dedicated to recouping the family fortune with your archeology, eh? You hope to find a fabulously valuable antique crown.” He grinned indulgently at his sister. “And with the proceeds and your reputation, you and Mother can refurbish the house and live in splendor.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

“My way is easier.”

“By way of Sarah’s bed, Rudi? It’s indecent of you.”

“I am not a very decent fellow. You always tell me that. But I do have my practical side. You look for your mythical crown—but I seek something more tangible. Old Berg-mann’s nickel ore, eh?”

“Professor Bergmann was Uncle Franz’ devoted friend, Rudi. Why do you speak of him with such contempt?” “Like you, he is a scholar. Not practical. If we find the ore again, the location will be valuable.”

“You cannot buy real estate on S-5.”

“I can sell what I know. The Chinese would pay plenty for it.”

She said sharply, “I knew it! You have been scheming with foolish friends—”

“The information simply came to me,” he said easily. “It is a confidence. You must not mention it.”

“And you will do nothing about it!” Alessa stood up. “I do not wish to be your enemy in this, Rudi. But I will not be involved in your
gestes
.”

“Calm down, Alessa. Nothing has been settled.”

“See to it that nothing is. And to be practical—what will you do about Jane? She can upset your plans with Sarah, can’t she?”

“I’ll take care of that,” Rudi said.

His face changed when he spoke, and Alessa thought he looked like a stranger. She turned away, unwilling to let him see her fear.

DURELL was on the telephone with Donegan when Alessa came downstairs. Donegan had no news of Jane. No one had seen her. Military patrols were scouring the city for her. But Karachi had a population of over two million. There were the wharf areas, the sprawling native slums, the new building projects, the hotels on Victoria Road. She had been reported walking on Kutchery Road, near the Palace Hotel; she was seen having tea at the Shezan; she had gone by taxi to the Karachi Gymkhana Club on Khuro Road. All the leads were false. The sprawling city had swallowed her up. The latest lead was that she was with some tourists visiting Quaid-i-Azam’s tomb of Ali Jinnah, founder of Pakistan. There was no other word.

Durell hung up and shook hands with Alessa von Buhlen as Sarah introduced them. It was five o’clock. A servant in a white frock coat wheeled in a rubber-tired cart with bottles of liquor, tonic, glasses, fresh lemons and limes. He chose bourbon. Alessa asked for bourbon, too.

“You are our American escort,” she smiled. “I have heard much about you, from Sarah and Mr. Donegan. They say you are a dangerous man.” Her English was only faintly accented. “You have lived a very exciting life, they say, working for your State Department.”

“It’s exciting at this moment,” Durell said, meeting her eyes.

She flushed slightly. From the moment she had walked into the room alone, straight and tall and lovely, a kind of electric charge was generated between them. Her Viennese accent was well modulated. He had discounted much of Henry Kallinger’s description of her, in Istanbul. And she was not    a Valkyrie, fierce and warlike. There was a polish and grace about her that impressed him, an intellectual calm, a knowledge of herself as a stunning and desirable woman, but not    aggressive about it, not on the offensive, and disdaining the usual feminine postures and devices.

Her short golden hair, parted on one side, added to the delectable shape of her head and face. Small enameled earrings glistened on the lobes of her ears. She was proud. Her body was fine, her movements flowing with the easy co-ordination of an athlete.

A servant came in and murmured something to Sarah Standish, and Sarah excused herself and Durell was alone with Alessa.

“I am so sorry,” Alessa said. “My brother Rudi will be down soon. It will be a comfort to have you with us on this new expedition, Mr. Durell.”

“You managed to reorganize your assault on S-5 quickly.” “One must take advantage of the season up there. Once it snows, we may not find Professor Bergmann’s markers— the flags he used to locate the area from which he took his ore samples.”

“Why couldn’t you find the place yourself?” he asked.

“Oh, but I was not with him when he discovered the ore. Ernst went off to explore the North Peak, taking two porters with him, dividing our party. My interest was only in finding the crown of Alexander. Poor Bergmann came along simply to satisfy his interest in minerals and geological formations —that sort of thing.” She smiled sadly at Durell and sipped her bourbon. “This American whiskey is something I have developed a small taste for. Is it your favorite?” “Yes. It’s popular where I come from.”

“Louisiana? They call you a Cajun?” She frowned slightly. “Is that not a term meaning a form of exile—”

“Not exactly.” He did not go into it. He felt a thin edge of excitement, apart from his awareness of Alessa as an extraordinary woman. “I’d like to know more about what happened to Bergmann.”

Her eyes were pained. “I was very fond of him. He was very dear to me, a harmless, middle-aged man devoted to research. He was very excited about the nickel. He said it was quite rich.”

“But you didn’t go to the site with him?”

“There was a sudden storm, quite severe. It was impossible.”

“You didn’t wait it out?”

“We had to leave the mountain in a hurry. Some Chinese patrols were reported. Anyway, Bergmann had his ore samples and his map.”

“Nobody seems to know what happened to the map,” Durell said.

“Or to Ernst Bergmann,” she said in quiet reproof. “He was more important to me than the rocks and the map. In Rawalpindi he went to the American Information Office and spoke to one of your officers there and left the ore samples, but not the chart. Your official notified your State Department, I suppose. I had also cabled to Rudi and Sarah, at Cannes then, and I suppose Sarah notified her business office, who in turn also called Washington’s attention to the discovery of nickel on S-5.” She smiled. “And so you are here to accompany us and see that this time we conclude our mission safely.”

Durell wondered if she was avoiding the point. “But didn’t you see Bergmann after he left the American office in Rawalpindi?”

“No. No one saw him after that. He—simply vanished.” “What do you think happened to him?”

“I do not know. He was a gentle, naive man, not given to thinking in terms of violence.”

“Do you think he met with violence?”

She said desperately, “Nothing else would have kept him from returning to me that day. He was very loyal to me.” “You don’t suppose he might have been approached with a large sum of money for his map? Someone who was waiting for him when he left the American Information Offices?” She looked shocked. “You are a suspicious man.”

“It’s my business to be suspicious, Alessa.”

“For Ernst Bergmann to sell out and arrange a disappearance like that is most implausible. If you knew him—” “Then what happened to him?”

“I think he was killed—for the map.” Her voice was cold. “I think this should explain the haste with which your government and the Pakistani officials helped me reorganize the expedition to S-5.”

The telephone rang again. Sarah came into the room and answered it, then turned the instrument over to Durell. “It’s for you.”

It was Colonel K’Ayub. He spoke in Urdu, which expressed a sense of cool formality better than English.

“We have found her, Mr. Durell,” he said quietly.

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“You have her in custody?”

“Under surveillance,” K’Ayub said, switching back to Eng-

lish. “She was traced in a rather erratic walking tour around the Shepsi Mosque, into Edward VII Park, then the Juno Market. She has been sitting at the Monkton Cafe Grand for an hour now, waiting for someone.”

“Who is watching her?”

“Zalmadar. A Pathan sergeant, my personal servant.” “Did she make any contacts?”

“We have picked up a beggar, a Jain holy man who accosted her, a Goanese gentleman, a chi-chi named DaSilva, and the owner of a silver bazaar, a Mr. Janninin. They insist they had no business with her. They say she seemed dazed and lost. We are continuing the questioning.”

“If she’s still sitting in Monkton’s, then she hasn’t met the man she’s expecting so far.”

“Exactly. Shall I pick you up?”

“I’ll meet you,” Durell said. “Tell me where and when.” “Ten minutes. At the Metropole?”

“Right.”

Durell hung up. Sarah Standish watched him with anxious eyes. “Is Jane all right?”

“Perhaps,” he said. He looked at Alessa. “Would you mind asking your brother Rudi to step down here for a moment?” “I’m sorry,” Alessa said. “He left the bungalow at the same time I came downstairs to meet you.”

The sun was lower, hazed by the steamy humidity, and it would soon be dark; but there seemed to be no relief from the heat. The crowd had thickened at Monkton’s, mostly Englishmen, shipping agents and claims and adjustment people, a few Americans on economic missions, some Portuguese businessmen. Jane’s nausea came in waves, like the thickening darkness. Her eyes searched the crowded sidewalk—the Europeans in small minority, the Pakistanis in sherwanis, pajama trousers and Jinnah caps, the Pathans and few Hindus, the Arabs, rich and poor, a Sherpa, the military in trim khaki. Traffic in motley interurban buses, packed until the vehicles bulged, rolled outward to the new urban development projects. Bicycles, rickshaws, a few camel-drawn carts fought for space on the broad avenue.

Then she saw Rudi walking from the direction of the Metropole, tall and handsome and Nordic, at ease in the diverse crowd. He wore a white linen Italian suit, an American drip-dry shirt, a dark thin necktie. She hated him and loved him,

despising her hand that lifted eagerly as if of its own will, to attract his attention and greet him.

He stood at her table, unsmiling. “Jane.”

“Sit down, Rudi,” she said humbly. “Please don’t frown at me like that. I’m sorry, but I simply had to see you, and you avoided me at the house, from the moment we came to Karachi yesterday—”