objective, are they?” Korvuth sighed. His gun was held steady in Deirdre’s back. He looked like a small, shabby business man in an old overcoat and a battered felt hat of brown. His dark, knitted tie was slightly askew under a limp, stained collar. It was his eyes that kept Durell immobile. They were pale, as hard as agates, void of any depths. A killer’s eyes, with a mind behind them that had gone beyond any ordinary humanity, the eyes of a man who measured all life in only cold, mathematical terms, empty of any saving emotion.
"You are intelligent,” Korvuth said softly. “Naturally, you guess what my real mission is. You know that I do not matter. And neither do you, except that your elimination may be of some small help to us."
“Let the girl go,” Durell said. “We can do our business outside.”
“On the contrary. I am not that simple. I understand your Western, bourgeois impulses toward chivalry. While I threaten her, you will not make a move. I respect your abilities, Mr. Durell, and I know your medieval impulses. One of the great weaknesses of your culture, this sloppy sentimentality. Zoltan?”
The nervous blond man beside Durell nodded jerkily. “We have been here too long already.”
The trap was ready to spring, to deliver its death blow. Durell breathed lightly and easily. He looked at Deirdre and suddenly remembered what they had discussed that morning, at that peaceful breakfast, in a time that seemed to belong to another life and world. She had wanted to work for McFee, and he had warned her that her safety could not take precedence over his job. Now she read what he was thinking; she saw it in his eyes. And before her growing dismay became evident to these two men, Durell did what had to be done.
Zoltan Ske was just a little too nervous and anxious. He stood too near to him. Durell’s move was fast, accurate, deadly. His hand chopped down precisely for the nerves in Ske’s wrist. The gun jumped from the man’s paralyzed fingers, hit the floor, bounced along the rug. There came a muffled report from Korvuth’s gun. He saw the expression of surprise in Korvuth’s flat face, the disbelief that Durell would act with the gun in Deirdre’s back. Korvuth had counted on an emotional factor in Durell, and not on the training that had crushed and eliminated it. And because Korvuth had been sure Durell would yield to his threat against Deirdre, the man was thrown off balance for a few decisive seconds.
Deirdre fell, crumpling to the floor. Durell struck once more at Ske, driving the blond man stumbling against the wall, and then he jumped for Korvuth. The man fired wildly. The bullet chunked plaster from the ceiling. And then Durell had him, just for a moment, feeling the wild strength and agility of the man under his paunchy, nondescript façade.
Korvuth’s gun went off again. It was an accident—the man was not aiming and couldn’t aim while Durell gripped him— yet it happened, and Durell felt the jolting smash of the slug high up in his arm. The force of it broke his grip and he spun away, his hand still clinging to Korvuth’s gun. But the man was free now, turning to the window. Durell pulled himself up, stumbling over Deirdre, and saw Zoltan Ske move toward the window, shouting something. There was a different shout from outside. Franklin’s voice. Korvuth spun away toward the front door, panting, while Durell raised the man’s gun. There was defeat in the other’s pale eyes, and a promise of terror in the future. He got through the door before Durell could fire. And Durell, his right arm numb, managed to switch the gun to his left hand. He followed, nausea moving up in him, feeling the warmth of blood running down his arm under the texture of his suit. Zoltan Ske was already outside. A shot cracked. Korvuth was behind his companion, out in the rain on the wide, black lawn.
Durell yelled a warning to Franklin, but it was George Mester who made the mistake, coming at a dead run
"You are intelligent,” Korvuth said softly. “Naturally, you guess what my real mission is. You know that I do not matter. And neither do you, except that your elimination may be of some small help to us."
“Let the girl go,” Durell said. “We can do our business outside.”
“On the contrary. I am not that simple. I understand your Western, bourgeois impulses toward chivalry. While I threaten her, you will not make a move. I respect your abilities, Mr. Durell, and I know your medieval impulses. One of the great weaknesses of your culture, this sloppy sentimentality. Zoltan?”
The nervous blond man beside Durell nodded jerkily. “We have been here too long already.”
The trap was ready to spring, to deliver its death blow. Durell breathed lightly and easily. He looked at Deirdre and suddenly remembered what they had discussed that morning, at that peaceful breakfast, in a time that seemed to belong to another life and world. She had wanted to work for McFee, and he had warned her that her safety could not take precedence over his job. Now she read what he was thinking; she saw it in his eyes. And before her growing dismay became evident to these two men, Durell did what had to be done.
Zoltan Ske was just a little too nervous and anxious. He stood too near to him. Durell’s move was fast, accurate, deadly. His hand chopped down precisely for the nerves in Ske’s wrist. The gun jumped from the man’s paralyzed fingers, hit the floor, bounced along the rug. There came a muffled report from Korvuth’s gun. He saw the expression of surprise in Korvuth’s flat face, the disbelief that Durell would act with the gun in Deirdre’s back. Korvuth had counted on an emotional factor in Durell, and not on the training that had crushed and eliminated it. And because Korvuth had been sure Durell would yield to his threat against Deirdre, the man was thrown off balance for a few decisive seconds.
Deirdre fell, crumpling to the floor. Durell struck once more at Ske, driving the blond man stumbling against the wall, and then he jumped for Korvuth. The man fired wildly. The bullet chunked plaster from the ceiling. And then Durell had him, just for a moment, feeling the wild strength and agility of the man under his paunchy, nondescript façade.
Korvuth’s gun went off again. It was an accident—the man was not aiming and couldn’t aim while Durell gripped him— yet it happened, and Durell felt the jolting smash of the slug high up in his arm. The force of it broke his grip and he spun away, his hand still clinging to Korvuth’s gun. But the man was free now, turning to the window. Durell pulled himself up, stumbling over Deirdre, and saw Zoltan Ske move toward the window, shouting something. There was a different shout from outside. Franklin’s voice. Korvuth spun away toward the front door, panting, while Durell raised the man’s gun. There was defeat in the other’s pale eyes, and a promise of terror in the future. He got through the door before Durell could fire. And Durell, his right arm numb, managed to switch the gun to his left hand. He followed, nausea moving up in him, feeling the warmth of blood running down his arm under the texture of his suit. Zoltan Ske was already outside. A shot cracked. Korvuth was behind his companion, out in the rain on the wide, black lawn.
Durell yelled a warning to Franklin, but it was George Mester who made the mistake, coming at a dead run
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