Assignment Afghan Dragon Read Online Free PDF

path between himself and the two young men. Somewhere in the village a dog began to bark. It was soon hushed. A camel grunted behind one of the houses across the road that led to the lake. He thought he heard the wailing of a popular Moslem melody; a radio, somewhere. Otherwise, the village was peaceful and quiet.
    Mort Jones said, “Tell him, Annie. It’s something we don’t know what to do about. It’s too big for us. We don’t want trouble with the cops, either. We can all throw in with each other. Friendly, like. No need to argue or fight about it. You’d lose anyway, buddy. We’ve got you by the short hairs. So we’ll show you this thing, and afterward we can work out a deal, if you’ve got the right connections.” Mort laughed thinly. “Which we think you do. You don’t look like one of these businessmen sent over from the States by your corporation. There’s a smell about you, mister, that I could catch a mile away. You smell like a cop. But maybe not an honest cop. Maybe you’re not above a little deal, anyway.”
    “I’m not a cop,” Durell said.
    “Well, you’re something,” Mort argued. “Anyway, we don’t want to hang around here too long. The locals might come sniffing around any minute. So be a good fella, huh? And first off, throw your gun away. We’ve got you in our sights.”
    Both men moved slightly, as if on signal, and Durell saw their weapons, snubby automatic rifles that outpow-ered his .38 beyond any chance of discussion. He was not too surprised. The girl moved quickly out of his reach, drawing back along the wall. All this time, the taller man, Charley Anderson, had left the talking up to the fat boy. Now Anderson spoke, his voice harsh as the desert Durell had left behind.
    “You’ve got ten seconds, Durell.”
    Durell said, “I’ll go with you. But I’ll keep my gun, if this is to be a friendly enterprise.”
    “No. Toss the gun to Annie.”
    Durell looked at the man’s rock-hard face and reached carefully for his weapon and held it flat in his palm, then threw it to the girl. She caught it deftly and backed away some more until she stood with her companions.
    “Sensible,” Anderson said. “Now get up front in the van, between Mort and me. Annie, you get in the back.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “You’ll see.”
    “What’s so big about this that you can’t handle it yourselves?”
    “We can handle it, all right. But you could tell us something about it. Get in.”

    They headed southwest, leaving Ur-Kandar and the lake with its shining Greek column behind them. They were on the road back toward the place where Fingal had died. Nobody rushed out to stop them. The sound of the VW van didn’t seem to disturb any of the sleeping villagers.
    Mort Jones drove. There was an excitation in the fat man that disturbed Durell. Mort hummed, whistled softly, made clucking sounds with his tongue. He did not seem to be high on anything, however. He handled the little bus casually, his fat fingers drumming on the wheel. Now and then Durell felt the muzzle of Anderson’s gun grate against his ribs. He felt no desperate alarm as yet. Curiosity about this trio had risen within him to the danger point. Annie sat behind them, clinging for support as the bus jolted on the rough road. Now and them he glimpsed her face in the rearview mirror. She looked tense and a bit sad, her eyes inward-viewing.
    The interior of the van was a surprise. Under the surface clutter of blankets, bedrolls, boxes of equipment that included shovels, rock hammers, and even mountain-climbing gear, the van was scrubbed spotless. The cooking utensils were stainless steel and copper, polished to a high shine, and neatly stowed. The contradiction troubled him. He wondered if it was the girl’s influence. Their outward appearance was only a facade. Perhaps Annie was brought up with a sense of tidy housekeeping. But the two men, under their casual grime, were equally meticulous.
    The equipment was all