Assignment Afghan Dragon Read Online Free PDF Page A

together,” Durell said.
    “Oh, yes, we have.”
    She had changed into cleaner jeans and a heavier, checked man’s shirt, hanging out over her hips. The night was becoming cool as a wind blew over the briny lake from the northeast. There were no clouds, and the moon, at a gibbous phase, cast a bright light over the little town, as cold and fearsome as the light in the girl’s gray eyes. The shadows in the alley were sharp ebony and silver, etching the shape of her delicate nose and chiseled mouth. She seemed to be unarmed. He was not so sure of the two men who waited at a distance behind her at the van.
    “What happened to Chadraqi?” he asked.
    “Who?”
    “The clerk at the inn.”
    “Oh, him. He ran away.”
    “Why?”
    “He was probably afraid the police would catch him after he allowed you illegally into the government building. Were you using the telephone?”
    Durell drew a deep breath. “I think you and your two friends had better just take off. I’m not in the mood for any of your fun and games.”
    “We just want to talk to you,” she said.
    “What about?”
    “Maybe we took a walk down that ravine after you left us by the road. Maybe we saw things we oughtn’t to have seen. Would you believe that?”
    He thought of Fingal again. “You found him?”
    “Oh, my, yes.”
    “Who did it?” he asked.
    “Now, how would we know a little thing like that? Was he a friend of yours, Mr. Durell?”
    The fat young man, Mort Jones, called something in a soft, impatient, urgent voice. The girl turned her head, her dark hair swinging again, and Durell could have taken her with ease, to use her against the other two, but he did not think they would have any scruples about the girl, and Durell did not want to show any violence yet. It was a half-mile walk back to the inn, and in between was the mosque and the main huddle of mud-walled houses. He had no wish to waken the whole village.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
    The girl said, “You’re a cold one, aren’t you? He was an American, wasn’t he?”
    “How could you tell?”
    “We’re just guessing. We’ve been discussing it a lot. All we know is that we saw your vehicle and saw you coming back up from the ravine. We don’t know how long you were down there or why you pegged him out and tortured him. The police would be interested in hearing all this, wouldn’t they?”
    “Why don’t you go to them, then?”
    “Well, we’re all fellow Americans in a foreign country, aren’t we? We ought to stick together, especially in trouble like this.” The girl’s voice was flat, not very persuasive. “After all, justice here isn’t like in the good old U.S.A. They could lock you up and throw the key away, like they do in Turkey—except I think they’d hang you right off the bat. Surely we can come to terms.”
    “What do you want? Money?”
    “Sure,” she said. “Lots of it. And a bit more. We could help you, you know.”
    Mort Jones called again, his voice a hissing sound in the moonlight. The girl did not turn her head this time. When she looked at Durell, he had the feeling again of something behind her eyes; an appeal, perhaps, a cry of anguish. He couldn’t be certain. She was one of the trio, a girl who shared herself between the two men. And yet there was an odd discipline here that did not quite fit the pattern of drifting, homeless American youth.
    “All right,” Durell said, “I’ll give you some money, just to save me trouble with the local fuzz, right? We’ll go back to the inn.”
    “No,” Mort called. “You come with us.”
    “Why?”
    “We want to show you something. Something that dead man never had a chance to tell you about. Something important. Maybe it’s what you were looking for, hey?”
    “Like what?” Durell asked.
    He felt a menace from the two men more intense than before. The girl stood about six feet away from him and to one side, against the wall of the building, leaving a clear