Read Online Assignment - Ankara by Edward S. Aarons - Free Book Online
Authors: Edward S. Aarons
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door to Uvaldi’s cell.
No sound came from inside. Light flickered behind him and he turned his head and saw Kappic returning with a lantern. The Turk looked huge and burly in the odd light. The crescent moon insignia on his lambskin military cap winked and glistened in the oil lamplight. Durell nodded to the Turk and drew his gun and, as Kappic held the lantern high, Durell pushed open the door suddenly and went in fast, at a low, hard crouch.
Nothing happened.
Kappic’s lantern showed a barren little cell exactly like all the others they had passed. There were two cots in it, but one was empty. Durell expelled a long breath and walked over to the man who lay on his back on the other cot.
“Is it Dr. Uvaldi?” Kappic asked, his voice harsh.
“Yes,” Durell said. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
Durell stared down at the man on the cot. There was no mistake about Uvaldi’s identity, according to the description given to him by Dinty Simpson in Ankara. Short, dark of skin, with a broad flat forehead and a shock of gray hair and spade beard, Uvaldi lay in his clothes with his eyes open, the whites faintly glittering in the light of Kappic’s lamp. The man’s tongue protruded slightly from between his small white teeth. Durell touched his cheek with the back of his fingers. The flesh was still warm. There was a mottled bruise on the dead man’s flat forehead that had already turned yellow in the past twenty-four hours. A bandage had been neatly applied to the left wrist—apparently the work of the Turkish doctor below.
“But what is it?” Kappic insisted hoarsely. “I was told he was recuperating very well, that he was only slightly injured and resting—” The Turk’s military boots scraped harshly on the stone floor as he neared the cot.“Was it a heart attack, do you think?”
“No,” Durell said.
He flashed the light all around the cubicle. If Uvaldi had been ready to leave for the States, there was no trace of luggage, either handbag or attache case. Gently, Durell turned the dead man over.
There was a small tear in the back of Uvaldi’s checked coat, and he parted it with careful fingers, aware of Kappic’s tight breathing beside him. Under the torn cloth was the gleam of a shining steel pin, an eight of an inch in diameter, and certainly long enough to reach a man’s heart. Durell had seen a weapon like this before, among samples taken from the equipment of enemy agents. He straightened, and as Lieutenant Kappic started to ask another question, he said flatly, “We’re a few minutes too late, Mustapha. Uvaldi was just murdered.”
He turned away from the dead man, aware of Kappic’s silence, aware of a sense of defeat. He hadn’t known Dr. Uvaldi, except as a name, a contact to be made and a package to be escorted home. If Uvaldi had died naturally, or as a result of the earthquakes, he would have accepted this and gone on, accustomed to the ironic turns of fate. But this was neither an accident nor a natural event.
Someone had had a purpose in killing Uvaldi. And it had been done recently, within the past half-hour.
There was no expression of surprise on the dead man’s bearded face, but that was not necessarily of significance, because this method of killing was swift and practically painless.
He made a rapid, thorough search of the sparsely furnished cell, opened the single narrow window and looked down at the courtyard below. The smell of charcoal smoke and dung, of huddled cattle and sheep and men, filled the cold night air. He heard the mutterings and groanings of the ragged refugees and the thin bleating of a goat. He returned to the dead man and searched the body while Kappic held the lamp.
There was nothing to be found. The tapes were gone. “Mr. Durell?” the lieutenant said quietly.
“Somebody beat us to it.” Durell’s voice was hard, angry. “There was a leak somewhere, somehow. Somebody knew that Uvaldi had something important for us.”
“But how could that
No sound came from inside. Light flickered behind him and he turned his head and saw Kappic returning with a lantern. The Turk looked huge and burly in the odd light. The crescent moon insignia on his lambskin military cap winked and glistened in the oil lamplight. Durell nodded to the Turk and drew his gun and, as Kappic held the lantern high, Durell pushed open the door suddenly and went in fast, at a low, hard crouch.
Nothing happened.
Kappic’s lantern showed a barren little cell exactly like all the others they had passed. There were two cots in it, but one was empty. Durell expelled a long breath and walked over to the man who lay on his back on the other cot.
“Is it Dr. Uvaldi?” Kappic asked, his voice harsh.
“Yes,” Durell said. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
Durell stared down at the man on the cot. There was no mistake about Uvaldi’s identity, according to the description given to him by Dinty Simpson in Ankara. Short, dark of skin, with a broad flat forehead and a shock of gray hair and spade beard, Uvaldi lay in his clothes with his eyes open, the whites faintly glittering in the light of Kappic’s lamp. The man’s tongue protruded slightly from between his small white teeth. Durell touched his cheek with the back of his fingers. The flesh was still warm. There was a mottled bruise on the dead man’s flat forehead that had already turned yellow in the past twenty-four hours. A bandage had been neatly applied to the left wrist—apparently the work of the Turkish doctor below.
“But what is it?” Kappic insisted hoarsely. “I was told he was recuperating very well, that he was only slightly injured and resting—” The Turk’s military boots scraped harshly on the stone floor as he neared the cot.“Was it a heart attack, do you think?”
“No,” Durell said.
He flashed the light all around the cubicle. If Uvaldi had been ready to leave for the States, there was no trace of luggage, either handbag or attache case. Gently, Durell turned the dead man over.
There was a small tear in the back of Uvaldi’s checked coat, and he parted it with careful fingers, aware of Kappic’s tight breathing beside him. Under the torn cloth was the gleam of a shining steel pin, an eight of an inch in diameter, and certainly long enough to reach a man’s heart. Durell had seen a weapon like this before, among samples taken from the equipment of enemy agents. He straightened, and as Lieutenant Kappic started to ask another question, he said flatly, “We’re a few minutes too late, Mustapha. Uvaldi was just murdered.”
He turned away from the dead man, aware of Kappic’s silence, aware of a sense of defeat. He hadn’t known Dr. Uvaldi, except as a name, a contact to be made and a package to be escorted home. If Uvaldi had died naturally, or as a result of the earthquakes, he would have accepted this and gone on, accustomed to the ironic turns of fate. But this was neither an accident nor a natural event.
Someone had had a purpose in killing Uvaldi. And it had been done recently, within the past half-hour.
There was no expression of surprise on the dead man’s bearded face, but that was not necessarily of significance, because this method of killing was swift and practically painless.
He made a rapid, thorough search of the sparsely furnished cell, opened the single narrow window and looked down at the courtyard below. The smell of charcoal smoke and dung, of huddled cattle and sheep and men, filled the cold night air. He heard the mutterings and groanings of the ragged refugees and the thin bleating of a goat. He returned to the dead man and searched the body while Kappic held the lamp.
There was nothing to be found. The tapes were gone. “Mr. Durell?” the lieutenant said quietly.
“Somebody beat us to it.” Durell’s voice was hard, angry. “There was a leak somewhere, somehow. Somebody knew that Uvaldi had something important for us.”
“But how could that
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