Assignmnt - Ceylon by Edward S. Aarons

going to a lot of trouble, more than it’s worth, going after bigger game than I can identify at the moment. You have to tell me,
    Aspara.”
    “But I know nothing more.”. She stood up, her every gesture a thing of grace. Durell wondered where her son had gone. He listened to a jet come in low overhead, headed for Bandaranaike Airport nearby. The sound was incongruous in this peaceful setting, although he knew there was 50 no peace for him anywhere. Aspara glided to the veranda window, then turned with her hands clasped before her. “It is my fault you are in such trouble. I asked at the American embassy, when Ira vanished, that you should be sent here to cope with it. Did you know that?”
    “No.”
    She smiled. “I never forgot you, of. course.”
    “I’m glad.”
    “It is shameful for my country that this has occurred. That an American diplomat and distinguished archeolo-gist, helping my people rediscover their past, should be held for ransom by terrorists. And such strange demands! A half-million in cash, a jet plane, a guarantee of nonmolestation. We have only one more day—less than twenty-four hours now—to meet those demands. My government is not willing to yield to the PFM. It would continue the precedent set in other nations. But I think Washington is willing to pay the price. I did not think Ira was that important.” She made a mouth. “It is not from past affection that I became concerned in this, dear Sam.”
    “I know. By why did George show up just now?”
    “Why shouldn’t he?”
    “It’s not a coincidence,” Durell said.
    “Dear Sam, you are always too suspicious.”
    “I have to be. Have your police discovered what Ira had been doing in the Cinnamon Gardens when the PFM took him?”
    “He was at the museum of antiquities there.” She touched her silken black hair and then sat down in a fine Bombay chair across the room from him, as if she were carefully keeping a distance between them. The intimacy they had shared was gone. “We know it was the PFM,” she said quietly. “They shouted for their leader, the Naga, the Cobra’s Bow, and left their demands scrawled on a note for the curator. Nobody really knows what Ira was interested in, so far as old ruins are concerned. He dabbled. It was one of the depressing things about him. He never finished his projects; he was like a seed-flower blown on the wind. Did your men find anything in Kandy?”
    “They’re both dead.” He drew a deep breath and told her about Wells and his mission to kill him. His anger about it was controlled now. She listened passively. Behind her beauty was a quick, alert mind, able to absorb Ceylonese politics and the balance of forces between Buddhist, Moslem, and Hindu sects, the tensions of ancient wars, which had once ravaged the island. She said, “I have heard rumors about Ira’s interest in an artifact called the Buddha Stone. It is only a myth. Ira is a foolish, impractical man. For the rest, you know as much as I do.”
    He said, “A taxi driver mentioned the Buddha Stone, too. This Naga—this Cobra’s Bow—who is he?”
    She dismissed it with a wave of her long-fingered hand. “A terrorist. He is not deep or subtle. A youngish man, full of old angers. Or a pawn in power politics. Perhaps Peking pays him. Perhaps Moscow. There are pressures here to negotiate naval bases that might control the Indian Ocean. The Naga claims it would bring prosperity to us. I have argued in our government circles that it would reduce us to a puppet’s status. The Naga means anarchy and danger to our young nation. It is not to be tolerated. Please, dear Sam. Drink your tea. Have something to eat.” He shook his head. “I have to get to Kandy.”
    “How will you do that? The police—you will continue to look for Ira?”
    “That’s what I was sent here to do.”
    “But if your own people now want to—to eliminate—”
    “I still have my job to do. In the course of doing it, maybe I can clear myself.” He