Free Assignment - Ankara by Edward S. Aarons Page A

again, trying to break free of the other’s grip; but he felt himself flung aside. He staggered, tried to regain his balance. The man started to run again, and Durell jumped, brought him down on all fours. They locked together, rolled over and over down the hill toward the hut.
    “Let—go!” the man gasped.
    He punched at Durell’s throat and tried to knee him. Durell slammed the gun against his opponent’s jaw and the man’s head snapped aside and blood gushed from a broken tooth.
    “Hold still,” Durell rasped.
    The man turned an astonished face upward. “You’re American?”
    “What did you think?”
    His chest heaved. “I didn’t know—Russian, maybe—”
    “Here, among these Turks?”
    “Somebody killed Dr. Uvaldi—I thought you were the one who did it—”
    "Hold still,” Durell said again. He stood back and leveled the gun at the man, who turned his head and gestured carefully toward some boulders in the rubbly field.
    “I think somebody is back there—a girl. Didn’t you see her? I tripped over her. I think she’s dead.”
    It could be a trick, Durell thought. The man spoke with a Tennessee twang, and his clothes were American. He looked at the man’s hands. A black ring that could have been fashioned from a lump of coal glistened on one of his fingers. “Just a minute,” Durell said. “Who are you?”
    “I was sent to take Dr. Uvaldi back to the States,” the man said. “But I was too late to save him, I reckon. I’m Bert Anderson—folks call me Andy—and I’m a diplomatic courier out of the U.S. Embassy in Ankara.”

Chapter Six
    ANDERSON climbed slowly to his feet, absently dusting his clothes, a rather rueful smile on his wide mouth. He looked even bigger and tougher close up than when Durell had chased him at a distance. There was something of an amiable frog in his expression—he had a broad mouth and large gray eyes, long legs and a barrel chest that gave an impression of awkwardness that, Durell knew, was not justified. He dabbed at a cut on his cheek and sucked at his broken tooth. His hands were big, with thick wrists—and now Durell saw that the ring he wore was a cut and polished piece of coal. Anderson must have weighed thirty pounds more than Durell, who was a large man, and he stood two inches above Durell’s six-foot-one.
    “Suppose you tell me who you are,” Anderson suggested grimly. “You seem to know a lot about my business.”
    “Have you an I.D. card?” Durell countered.
    “Sure.”
    “Let’s have it.”
    Anderson shrugged and carefully handed him a plastic-cased card. Durell glanced at it and handed it back.
    “All right, Bert.” He was satisfied. “It looks like we’re in this together. Ankara sent me to help you and Uvaldi out of here, with the radar tapes, and get you to Washington. My name is Durell.”
    “Sam Durell?” Anderson was surprised, then grinned his frog’s grin again. “Heard about you, friend. I’m impressed. Who’s the Turkish cop with you?”
    “A friend. He’ll escort us part of the way. Have you got Uvaldi’s tapes?”
    “No. I don’t know where they are.”
    “What happened to them?” Durell asked sharply.
    “I don’t know. Look, we’d better see about that girl—” Durell hesitated, then saw Kappic jogging uphill toward them out of the darkness, and nodded. He turned with Anderson and retraced his steps among the boulders strewn over the brushy field.
    “Here she is,” Anderson muttered. “Jesus, look at her.” Durell knelt quickly beside the still figure of Francesca Uvaldi. He thought for a moment she was dead. Then she moaned and lifted one hand in a feeble, defensive gesture, and he turned her gently until he could see her face. Wincing, he helped her sit up on the stony ground, his fingers on her pulse. She drew a long, sighing breath and opened her eyes wide and suddenly began to scream in terror.
    “It’s all right,” he said quickly. “It’s Durell.”
    Her scream ended. She touched her