Assignment - Sulu Sea by Edward S. Aarons Read Free Book Online Page A

Orleans."
    “Fair enough.”
    “So you do trust me?”
    "Have I a choice?" he smiled.
    She grinned in return. “Not much, really. All I need to do
is say one word, and the local commandos would pop you into the old Dutch
dungeons, across town.”
    “Don’t say it then. I’m on your side.”
    “Good luck,” she called.
    Before he reached the knot of customs men outside the
terminal, she had gunned her plane, which was obviously familiar enough to the
local people to cause no interest, and had taken off into the clear evening sky
again.
    A car waited for him from the consulate, and he was given
diplomatic clearance for his single piece of luggage. The local officials,
small brown-skinned men backed up by inevitable khaki-uniformed soldiers with
sub-machine guns, seemed disappointed when he was waved through. The man from
the consulate was Chinese.
    “Mr. Durell? Please, come this way.”
    The heat here was worse, if possible, than at the landing
strip at Balabuco, since they were only a few degrees above the equator. It was
the humidity, Durell told himself, and he wished he could stop at the airport
bar for a cool drink. But this obviously was not on the agenda. The
air-conditioning in the terminal had broken down, and the modem glass windows
made to be kept sealed had been forced open to admit the dust and heat of the
landing field, and nobody seemed surprised.
    The Chinese from the consulate was tall, broad of face, a
smiling young man in an impeccable gray suit with an Ivy League necktie, thick
black hair that glistened with vitality, and an easy, bouncy, athletic stride.
His handshake was quick and strong. His teeth gleamed.
    “This way, Mr. Durell. I have a car waiting to take you to
the consulate.”
    “Thank you. Is Mr. Kiehle, the consul, back from
Singapore?"
    “He is not expected until next week—until after the
plebiscite, that is—if there is a plebiscite.” Mr. Lee showed his white teeth.
“One never knows from day to day the future course of these islands.”
    “Then is the vice-consul, Dr. McLeod, in Pandakan?”
    “No, sir, he has gone to Tarakuta Island. He will be back
tomorrow or the next day. It is uncertain.”
    “Then who is minding the store?" Durell asked,
    Young Mr. Lee’s intelligent sloe eyes blinked. "It
seems that I am, as first secretary in the consulate."
    “I see. Well, I’ll accept a lift to the Hotel des Indes,
since I've got a room reserved there. I’m not staying at the consulate
here."
    “But I understood, sir—the guest room is prepared—”
    “Do oil salesmen get such preferential treatment?” Durell
asked. “We’ll make it the Hotel des Indes."
    Mr. Tommy Lee bit his lip and seemed frustrated, but his
expression passed as quickly as the shadow of a vulture over the baking
airport. “As you wish, Mr. Durell. It may be a bit dangerous, since two bombs
have already gone off in Salangapur Square. That’s in the center of town.
Several women were killed by the terrorists at a sidewalk cafe, and there have
been rumors of guerilla invasions at any moment.”
    “From where, Mr. Lee?"
    The young man shrugged. “One never knows. Indonesia and the
Malaysians would both prefer the plebiscite to be forgotten. And this may well
happen. A U.N. commission member was wounded yesterday by a grenade thrown into
the Europa Hotel bar, and some Indian shops, including the Mekassar Silver Shop, were bombed out. Hence I suggest you stay at the consulate, with
us.”
    “Thanks,” Durell said, “but the Hotel des Indes sounds just
right for me.”
     
    Although the airport had no obvious traffic, it was crowded
and busy. The GIA Airways—Garuda Indonesia Line—had offices cheek by jowl with
the Lembaga Kebudajaan Indonesia—the Indonesian Cultural Institute, an open
center for propaganda from Djakarta. Across the field, the Qantas Empire
Airline hangar was empty and deserted. There was a row of shops along the road
immediately beyond the hangars, predominantly Chinese, such