Assignment Moon Girl (16 page)

“I’ll want to call Hannigan there,” Durell said.

“After you tell me about Har-Buri’s headquarters.”

Durell sighed. “You, too?”

“Otherwise, you will be under official arrest.”

“And again turned over to one of Har-Buri’s people in your
agency?”

Hanookh bit his lip. “Well, we shall ask Ramsur Sepah what
to do. At least, I think we can trust him.”

“Don’t count on it,” Durell said.

It was midnight when they reached Teheran. Lotus was curled
up on the narrow luggage area behind the two front bucket seats. She seemed to
be asleep. Durell wondered what he could do with her. The best thing would be
to turn her over to Hannigan for political asylum in the embassy; but he
doubted if she would leave him until this was all over. There was something
touching in the trustful way she slept. She was a waif lost in a stormy, alien
world, driven only by the simplest of motives. Her dependence on him, now that
she had broken her servitude to Madame Hung, was disturbing. But he could
settle that later, in the future—if he had any future at all, he thought
grimly. If Har-Buri had put his revolutionary mobs into action, anything could
happen now.

And there was always Tanya Ouspanaya to consider, wandering
in the darkness of the night, lost and confused and hunted by self-seeking men
who only wanted to use her for their own purposes. Her father’s words had been
less than satisfactory. But certain items had been confirmed in his mind,
just the same. There were too many cross-currents to figure them all out.
First, he had to find Tanya. It seemed an impossible task. Find her, take
her to the embassy, and negotiate with the Soviets for her safe return. There
would be bureaucrats at home who would throw roadblocks up to that, anxious to
pick her mind clean, regardless of the diplomatic consequences. Nobody was in
the clear, these days. He knew that only after he found Tanya again could he
give Hanookh his information about Hat-Bun. If the Iranians moved too soon,
Tanya would be lost forever.

But he couldn’t find her without Hanookh’s help. Time
was running out, and if Har-Buri made his revolutionary move too soon, then his
own trump might prove useless.

The lights of Teheran’s boulevards slid by. Hanookh gave him
directions to Ramsur Sepah’s house. “He is holding a diplomatic reception there
tonight,” Hanookh said. We could be inconspicuous in the crowd. I have been
thinking, Durell, that it would be easy, with planes and tanks, to go back into
the desert and take Har-Buri. Then his rebels would be crushed at once, the
head lopped off and the body useless.”

“And Tanya Ouspanaya?”

Hanookh shrugged. “She is of no concern to my government.”

“But my job is to save her.”

“That is secondary now.”

Not to me. If you use the military—provided you can
find officers who can be trusted, and I don’t think at this moment that
you can—then Tanya, if she’s back in Har-Buri’s hands, will die.”

Hanookh was annoyed. “Then what do you suggest?”

“I think I have to go back to the Dasht-i-Kavir and do it
myself.”

“You got her once, and lost her. Now it must be done the way
I propose.” Hanookh was uncompromising- I cannot bargain on this. Har-Buri’s
rebellion is urgent. The highest authorities must be consulted tonight. And if
you tell them what you know, the strike can be swift and sure.”

“You said I could call Hannigan.”

“Yes. After we speak to Ramsur Sepah.”

Lotus suddenly became very feminine and insisted she could
not to go a diplomatic reception dressed as she was. She had been docile until
they turned the car through the gates of the Sepah house. But when she

saw the bright garden lanterns and heard a French orchestra,
she breathed more quickly, and a tiny worry frown appeared between her eyes.

“I have been here before,” she said dubiously.

“When?”

“Oh, perhaps a week ago. I was in attendance to Madame Hung,
of course. It was a reception for most of the major embassies.”

Durell thought it didn’t have to mean anything. “Did you
meet Ramsur Sepah, Lotus?”

“Oh, no. I had to wait in the servants’ quarters.”

Her smile was uncertain. “It used to be the segregated
women’s apartments—the former harem.”

“Then you don’t know if Ta-Po and Sepah had any private
conversation during that evening?” Durell asked.

She shook her head. Hanookh said, “Truly, you are the most
suspicious of men, Durell.”

“We’ll leave Lotus where she remained before, then. All
right with you, Lotus?”

She nodded, and when they parked their dusty car before the
brilliantly lighted entrance to the square, sandstone house, Durell walked with
her to a side door. He took her arm and made her pay close attention as he told
her what he wanted her to do. She listened while her eyes searched his face.

“Will they arrest you here, Mr. Sam?”

“Quite possibly. So you must get to Hannigan on the
telephone and do the other things, if possible.”

She nodded. “I will do all you say.”

The garden party was set against a background of quiet
wealth and splendor, a gloss of Western culture like a thin sheen of oil over
the richer and more ancient Persian motifs. There were flaming torches
set in rose beds, fountains, music, a quiet and efficient scurrying of waiters
moving back and forth from a separate building that housed the kitchens. A high
wall effectively surrounded the estate and cut off all sounds from the street
beyond. Everything was cultivated to the final millimeter. The majordomo
at the door looked uncertainly at Durell and Hanookh until Hanookh
flashed a card and spoke curtly to the huge,
moustached
man, and then they were admitted, but not announced. Music, wine, perfume
seemed to spill about them as if from a giant cornucopia. There were walks and
mosaic walls and antique sculptures. It was a formal party, a. remarkable
collection of dazzling women and men from every country of the globe, it
seemed. When one compared the poverty of the desert to this sumptuous home of
Ramsur Sepah, one of the last of the feudal squires, Durell wondered if
Har-Buri’s cause might not have a few small points in its favor. He searched
the faces moving in the torchlight between the long refreshment tables, but he
didn’t spot Ta-Po or any members of the Soviet delegation who looked familiar.
But there seemed to be a preponderance of high-ranking Iranian military
officers in formal uniform, with their lieutenants in stiff attendance.

“Which one is Ramsur Sepah?” he asked Hanookh.

“I do not see him yet. I don’t understand—”

“What bothers you, Hanookh?”

“Nothing. Come this way, please.”

Durell followed him down a flight of steps, across a
corner of the garden, smiling and apologizing to the guests they had to squeeze
by, and then through a Moorish arched doorway into a wing of the big
red-dish-stone house. He had hoped to catch the eye of some American officials
at the far side of the garden, but he had no luck. Neither did any of the
British people recognize him. Hanookh was never more than a step behind him.

“Does Ramsur Sepah expect you?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“With me?”

“He specifically asked for a prior interview with you,
if I found you, and if it proved feasible. He was most urgent about it. As a
member of the Majlis and as the father of my dead friend, I promised to do what
I could to accommodate him.”

They came to an ornately carved door at the end of a
corridor, and Hanookh straightened his rumpled jacket, brushed his moustache
nervously, and then knocked with military precision. There was a brief wait.
Then a man’s voice asked them to enter.

If the rest of the house and garden promised Persian
delights from olden times, the study that opened before them was all modern
efficiency, top-executive-suite styling, the latest word from Madison Avenue.
There were some fine French Impressionist paintings, and they looked like
originals. The desk was enormous, with a leather top and inlaid boxes gleaming
with mother-of-pearl and polished fruitwood. The heavy draperies were tightly
drawn, and even the sound of the dance orchestra did not intrude into the
privacy of Ramsur Sepah’s office.

“Welcome, Mr. Durell.”

Ramsur Sepah was tall and dapper, a man who had known wealth
and position all his life, and who had the indefinable air of command
that such fortunate people acquire like a second skin. His face was grave; he
had a strong nose, thick gray hair and a seamed brown face; his powerful hands
rested lightly on the leather-topped desk. Under heavy hawk’s brows, turning
upward at the ends in twists of bushy hair, his dark brown eyes smiled
solemnly.

“Yes, Welcome. Hanookh, my dear boy, you have done very
well.”

“I am glad you are pleased, sir. It is a difficult situation.
Mr. Durell has submitted to technical arrest.

Since Colonel Saajadi is—is no longer with us—I am uncertain
as to who my immediate superior may be. I understand that your committee in the
Majlis was in direct control of our operations, commanded by Saajadi, and so I
assume it is proper to bring Durell to you. But the reports from the southern
towns are very grave, and the military must be put on alert. It is all beyond
my power, I confess. I don’t know friend from foe, at the moment.”

“I am most pleased with you, my boy.”

“Ike and I were the best of friends, sir,” said Hanookh.
“This American was with us for part of the time we were in the desert, along
with the Englishman, Beele, looking for the Russian girl and Har-Buri’s
headquarters.”

“The matter is now out of your hands,” Ramsur Sepah said
gently. “I will take care of everything. You will receive a commendation, you
can be sure.”

“Durell says that Colonel Saajadi was a traitor,” Hanookh
blurted out. “I am sure this is as great a shock to you as it was to
me—assuming it is true. But Mr. Durell has no reason to lie about something
that could be proved.”

“It is not a shock.” Ramsur Sepah’s rich voice conveyed
paternal sympathy toward the young man. “We have known about Saajadi’s leanings
for some time.”

“But then—”

“Yes. A calculated risk was taken. I lost my personal stake
in the matter, when my only son was killed.” A quiver touched the Iranian’s
harsh face. “Perhaps I should have warned Ike. And you, too, Hanookh. But it
was decided in committee that it was best to have known enemies than to grope
in the dark, as you put it. It was not an error. There are forces at work
tonight that will clarify the situation nicely, you can be sure. I’d advise you
to go home and go to bed. You look tired, you have been through an ordeal.”

“Sir, I must stay with Durell.”

“He is out of your hands.” Sepah’s voice crackled with
sudden authority. “Mr. Durell is now my responsibility.”

Durell had the sudden feeling that he had been this way
before. He said nothing as Hanookh asked for permission to wait for him in the
garden.

“If you insist,” Sepah agreed. “But it will be pointless.
Mr. Durell will cooperate with us when everything is explained.”

Hanookh hesitated a moment more, then reluctantly
 
backed out of the room. There was a small
silence while Ramsur Sepah moved boxes about on his big desk, opened a drawer
and stared into it for a moment, then sighed and stood up.

“I mourn my son,” he said quietly.

“Ike was a fine young man.”

“Yes. My only son. He was important to me. I did not think
he would be killed in the Dasht-i-Kavir.” The bushy hawk’s brows swooped up,
then down. “Could you tell me just where it happened?”

Durell said, “I wasn’t with him at the time.”

“Ah, yes. So young Hanookh told me. Where were you then, my
dear sir?”

“I think you know,” said Durell. “Have you, too, brought me
here to learn how to find
Har
-Bun?”

“It is important to know that.”

“But if I tell you, I’ll be put on the next plane out of
Teheran, with deportation orders in my hand.”

“True. On the other side of the coin, one begins to suspect
you of collusion with the rebel Har-Buri,. Since you are determined to protect
him. Your intelligence organization has been known to play rather peculiar
pranks in other national territories.”

“You know better than that, Mr. Sepah.”

“Do you want the girl so desperately, then?”

“I want her, yes.”

“And do you judge your value to us in terms of an exchange
of information about this Russian cosmonaut?”

“It’s a big factor.”

“Very well. Come with me.”

Ramsur Sepah moved with the grace of a hunting animal out
from behind his desk and opened another door to his office and stepped through.
Durell tried to stay close behind his tall, rapier figure. The room
beyond was dark. Sepah murmured something about the light and stepped ahead.
Durell felt a tingling at the nape of his neck. The door closed behind him with
a sudden swoop and rush of air. The darkness became absolute. He stood very
still for a moment, then put his back against the panel.

“Mr. Sepah—”

The silence was thicker than the darkness. Durell was not
surprised by what was happening; he had half expected it. On the other hand, he
was not quite prepared for the efficiency with which the man operated.

A light came on overhead.

He was in a blank-walled filing room. Cabinets
filled the area from floor to ceiling. The opposite door was
closed. Ramsur Sepah was not in the room with him. Then his voice came from a
speaker in the ceiling.

“You see how fortunate we are, Mr. Durell. We have the girl.
Yes, Tanya Ouspanaya is in our hands.”

Durell spoke to the ceiling. “Let me see her.”

“Oh, you shall! And so many of your questions will be
answered, very soon.” The voice from the loudspeaker laughed softly. “How
foolish of you not to have guessed by now, Mr. Durell. Your reputation led me
to believe you were more clever than this. You could call me by another name,
you see. No one has seen my photograph, I have little or no dossier in poor
young Hanookh’s files.”