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Authors: Edward S. Aarons
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mincing gait. The rising sun was enormous behind him, glowing through
the tamarisks that stood about the village well. “Where is she?” Durell asked
again, climbing out. “We know nothing, sir! Please give me the key to my
truck.”
“Are you running from the Army?”
“The soldiers are cruel men—they will not let us live—”
“Neither will I,” said Durell grimly.
Turning, he started for the village gate. The Arab made a
guttural sound and jumped at him with the knife. Durell twisted, broke the
stabbing blow with his left forearm, drove a fist under the thin man’s
ear. Something struck him heavily on the back of the head, and he staggered,
turning. The fat man had a stone in his hand and began beating at him with it.
Durell kneed him, heard him squeal like a stuck pig, felt the woman claw at him
with dirty fingernails. The Arab circled, knife glittering. The struggle
was silent. No one in the village seemed to hear a thing. Reddish sunlight
flooded through the tamarisk trees. Dust boiled up under their scuffling
feet. Durell did not want to use his gun. It would mean too many questions from
the local authorities, delays, news stories, impossible complications. His
opponents sensed his reluctance. They rushed him together, the two men and the
woman, and forced him back into the shadow under the village wall. They all had
knives ready now. He felt chagrined. How many good men had he known, who met
death in ugly, dirty ways like this? The files of K Section recorded the
end for too many, in dark alleys and far-off corners remote from everything
they had known. Something warm ran down his cheek. He was bleeding from the
stone the fat man had used. He drew a deep breath—and suddenly jumped for the
thin Arab.
The man gave a stifled screech, tried to squirm aside, his
blade flashing. Durell hit him in the throat, didn’t wait to see him go
down, and whirled for the fat man. The other’s blade point hissed before his
eyes. Durell drove hard into the bulging belly, heard the air go out of the man
with a grunt, and ducked as the woman leaped for him. Stones slid out from
under his feet. His shoulder hit the mud wall near the gate and he thought he
heard the insane cackling of a rooster in his ear. His head exploded with pain
and he rocked down to his knees, smothered under a smelly, oily body, bulbous
but muscular. He tried to slide away, but the weight pinned him down. Darkness
swooped over him. He heard a scream, a yammering, the explosive slam of a gun.
It wasn’t his own. He couldn’t reach the .38 in his belt now. There was a
wriggling heap of bodies all over him. He cursed, heaved upward, and hurled the
weight away from him. Then there was a bright flash of light and it all
ended, fading away in quick waves of silent motion. . . .
“Durell?” someone said.
And: “Can you hear me, sir?”
He looked up into an anxious young face, a dark moustache,
gleaming teeth that showed in a sudden smile. He sat up. He was still in the
dust at the foot of the village wall. He felt for his gun. He still had it. He
drew it, not caring what happened now. He had been too cautious before. He was
lucky to be alive. It could have killed him.
His vision cleared.
“Hello, Hanookh,” he said.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked the Iranian.
“I think so.”
“There’s a nasty gash on your arm. And someone used your
head as a com grinder. Otherwise, no damage.”
“Thank you,” Durell said. “Where did you come from?”
“Over the wall. The rascals are gone. I had hoped you might
come this way, across the Dasht-i-Kavir. My guess was right. But in another
moment or two—”
Durell nodded. “Where is Ike Sepah and Beele?”
The young man’s face grew dark and sorrowed.
“They are dead, sir.”
Durell stared into Hanookh‘s dark, liquid eyes. He saw the
truth in them. He sat still for a moment, then climbed laboriously to his feet.
“Let's get out of here.”
Chapter Six
THE sun made
the tamarisks that stood about the village well. “Where is she?” Durell asked
again, climbing out. “We know nothing, sir! Please give me the key to my
truck.”
“Are you running from the Army?”
“The soldiers are cruel men—they will not let us live—”
“Neither will I,” said Durell grimly.
Turning, he started for the village gate. The Arab made a
guttural sound and jumped at him with the knife. Durell twisted, broke the
stabbing blow with his left forearm, drove a fist under the thin man’s
ear. Something struck him heavily on the back of the head, and he staggered,
turning. The fat man had a stone in his hand and began beating at him with it.
Durell kneed him, heard him squeal like a stuck pig, felt the woman claw at him
with dirty fingernails. The Arab circled, knife glittering. The struggle
was silent. No one in the village seemed to hear a thing. Reddish sunlight
flooded through the tamarisk trees. Dust boiled up under their scuffling
feet. Durell did not want to use his gun. It would mean too many questions from
the local authorities, delays, news stories, impossible complications. His
opponents sensed his reluctance. They rushed him together, the two men and the
woman, and forced him back into the shadow under the village wall. They all had
knives ready now. He felt chagrined. How many good men had he known, who met
death in ugly, dirty ways like this? The files of K Section recorded the
end for too many, in dark alleys and far-off corners remote from everything
they had known. Something warm ran down his cheek. He was bleeding from the
stone the fat man had used. He drew a deep breath—and suddenly jumped for the
thin Arab.
The man gave a stifled screech, tried to squirm aside, his
blade flashing. Durell hit him in the throat, didn’t wait to see him go
down, and whirled for the fat man. The other’s blade point hissed before his
eyes. Durell drove hard into the bulging belly, heard the air go out of the man
with a grunt, and ducked as the woman leaped for him. Stones slid out from
under his feet. His shoulder hit the mud wall near the gate and he thought he
heard the insane cackling of a rooster in his ear. His head exploded with pain
and he rocked down to his knees, smothered under a smelly, oily body, bulbous
but muscular. He tried to slide away, but the weight pinned him down. Darkness
swooped over him. He heard a scream, a yammering, the explosive slam of a gun.
It wasn’t his own. He couldn’t reach the .38 in his belt now. There was a
wriggling heap of bodies all over him. He cursed, heaved upward, and hurled the
weight away from him. Then there was a bright flash of light and it all
ended, fading away in quick waves of silent motion. . . .
“Durell?” someone said.
And: “Can you hear me, sir?”
He looked up into an anxious young face, a dark moustache,
gleaming teeth that showed in a sudden smile. He sat up. He was still in the
dust at the foot of the village wall. He felt for his gun. He still had it. He
drew it, not caring what happened now. He had been too cautious before. He was
lucky to be alive. It could have killed him.
His vision cleared.
“Hello, Hanookh,” he said.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked the Iranian.
“I think so.”
“There’s a nasty gash on your arm. And someone used your
head as a com grinder. Otherwise, no damage.”
“Thank you,” Durell said. “Where did you come from?”
“Over the wall. The rascals are gone. I had hoped you might
come this way, across the Dasht-i-Kavir. My guess was right. But in another
moment or two—”
Durell nodded. “Where is Ike Sepah and Beele?”
The young man’s face grew dark and sorrowed.
“They are dead, sir.”
Durell stared into Hanookh‘s dark, liquid eyes. He saw the
truth in them. He sat still for a moment, then climbed laboriously to his feet.
“Let's get out of here.”
Chapter Six
THE sun made
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