Free Assignment - Mara Tirana by Edward S. Aarons Page B

to his knees, and tried to stop himself. But he could not hang on. For an instant he hung dizzyingly between earth and sky, with the wind in the pines like the labored sound of his breathing. His fingers scrabbled desperately at the earth, clawed at air—
    And he fell.

CHAPTER VI
    In Vienna, hours later, the telephone rang again.
    Durell opened his eyes. The ceiling light in his room at the Bristol still shone, expanding and contracting with luminous colored rings. He squeezed his eyes shut and looked up again. That was better. His gaze sharpened and moved sidewise and up again.
    The telephone rang once more.
    He sat up, felt an ache in the back of his neck and a stab of pain when he put his weight on his right arm. He drew in a sharp whistling breath and forced himself up on his feet, to sway drunkenly in the middle of the room.
    Everything was quiet. The corridor door was closed. The blonde girl, Mara Tirana, and the MVD man, Kopa, were gone.
    He was lucky to be alive, he thought.
    Why hadn’t Kopa taken a few extra moments to shoot him? It was one of the KGB objectives, Durell knew. Or at least, Kopa could have forced, or tried to force, some answers from him. Why hadn’t he finished the job?
    Perhaps the telephone had frightened them off. It kept ringing, reaching for him with insistent shrillness, refusing to let him sit down to rest and ease his swimming head. He walked slowly to the disheveled desk and picked it up, but it fell from his fingers and he had to stoop carefully to retrieve it.
    “Yes?”
    “Herr Durell?” It was Otto. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes, but I don’t know why. They had me cold, a moment ago—”
    “I had a man in the room next to you.” Otto sounded apologetic. “Forgive me, I thought it was wise. He had orders to shout for the police if there was any sign of a disturbance in your room.”
    “Where is your man now?”
    “Gone after Kopa and the girl. But I’m afraid they both got away. Still, he did his job, no? He just called on another phone—from a cafe on the Marianenstrasse—a schnapps-drinkers joint. Kopa and the girl fled from your room. He looked at you, but only enough to determine you were not dead. Then he went after them. But he thinks he lost them.”
    “All right,” Durell said. “Can you get me information on those two? I made a mistake about them. I thought they were just from the surveillance arm of the KGB—topol’-shchiki, foot-sloggers. But Kopa must be a code name. Have you got anything on him or the girl, Mara Tirana?”
    “I can have it for you. Herr Durell, I thought you should know—” Then Otto paused. “Are you sure you are all right?”
    “I’m alone with a headache. What is it?
    “Your pardon. I was only being careful. But Harry Hammett is gone. He met Fraulein Padgett and took her with him.”
    Durell drew in a sharp, painful breath. “Where?”
    “To the rendezvous. I thought you should know.” “Thank you.” Durell scowled, shook his head. “Listen, can you take me to the rendezvous point?”
    “Well, I—yes, I can. I think you should go. It is not right for Hammett to take the girl with him. She is only to bring the car back, you understand—this is what Herr Hammett tells me. But she does not belong in the picture and I could not agree, so I thought to tell you.”
    “Where can we meet?”
    Otto coughed apologetically in the telephone. “I did more. There was an urgent call from Washington about you. You are to speak to General Dickinson McFee at once. The phones here in my safe house are absolutely secure. You had better come here.”
    “All right,” Durell said. “In ten minutes.”    
    “Be most careful, please. There may be more topol'-shchiki on surveillance duty at the hotel.”
    “I'll watch it.”
    “Good. I shall be waiting for you.”

    Durell dropped the French phone on its delicate hooks and drew a deep breath. The room swung in an unsteady circle around him. He shook his head and walked into the