Assignment - Mara Tirana by Edward S. Aarons Page A

nothing more.
    Durell returned the dossiers, feeling dissatisfied and more worried about Deirdre than before.
    From a room nearby in Otto Hoffner’s house a telephone rang with a peculiar note, and Otto started.
    “It is the scramble phone. Washington. It will be for you, Herr Durell.”
    “I’ll take it now. Get ready to go as soon as I’m through, Otto.”
    “Yes, Herr Durell.”

    It was early evening in Washington. General Dickinson McFee’s voice was sharp and crackly, with that slight pause between sentences and words while the electronic coder worked to distort his words.
    “Sam? That you, Cajun?”
    “Here. I’m with Hoffner.”
    “I ought to have your head in a basket, Cajun, except that I’ve had the NASA, Pentagon and State on my back. Even a call from the White House. And I’m due to report to Joint Chiefs in an hour. . . . Where is Hammett?”
    “I’m going after him now.”
    “And your girl?”
    “With Hammett.”
    “All right. You’re up for disciplinary action—you know that, of course. But we’ll talk about it when and if you get back. I ordered Hammett to leave Deirdre Padgett in the States, to refuse her request to stay in Vienna under all circumstances. I don’t know what eats at you two idiots, but it’s going to get worse instead of better. You’re going in with Harry, Cajun.”
    “But I didn’t—”
    “If there was time, I’d have you both in a Federal pen. But we’re running out of time. We want Stepanic. I don’t give a damn about your personal feelings in this, Cajun. And I don’t care about your feud with Hammett. I want Stepanic. And you and Harry are going in to get him.”
    Durell was silent. The phone crackled for a moment. “Are you there, Sam?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You listening?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    McFee’s voice changed. “All right. Listen, Sam—get Deirdre home. I’ll take care of it. You do the job. And watch Hammett.”
    “I intend to.”
    “This one won’t be simple. We’ve got reports of a regular hornet’s nest stirred up behind the Curtain. Everybody wants Stepanic. The press is on my neck, too. Make it fast and clean and come home with him.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “That’s all, then.”
    Durell hung up.
    Otto was watching him, his eyes worried behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Durell shrugged.
    “Let’s go, Otto.”

    “It is a personal matter between you and Herr Hammett, nein? ” Otto asked. He looked small and mild, like a timid middle-aged clerk with his thin face and glasses. He drove his Porsche with expert speed, his pale hands resting lightly on the wheel. They were on the main highway out of Vienna, speeding northeast into the Marchfeld District, where the Danube was over three hundred yards wide and its channel was divided by numerous small islands. The frontier, where the river passed through a narrow gap between the lower spurs of the Carpathians, was thirty miles away. Here, in the night and rain, the countryside of church spires and fertile fields was dark and peaceful. The rain was light and steady. Otto said: “I think Hammett took the fraulein with him only to annoy you. It should not be serious. There may be no danger.”
    “There is always danger,” Durell said.
    “Of course. But you must remember that Harry, for all his faults, is a very competent man in the profession.”
    “We all make mistakes,” Durell said grimly. “This one is Harry’s.”
    “Yes, I can understand how you feel about that.” They drove on for a few more silent minutes. The road was wide and slick with rain, but Otto handled the speedy little Porsche easily. The Austrian was one of those deceptive little men who could move like a streak of lightning, if necessary. Durell felt better now, with the cold wet wind blowing in his face through the open car window. The road swung sharply east now, then a bit southerly through the Marchfeld, and now beyond the flickering masses of woodland and occasional spur of hill he could see the Danube,