‘He’s efficient and there’s no special tie up. Only business.’
‘Frank?’
‘He’s your brother.’
‘Half-brother. You keep forgetting that when my old man was doing his stretch in Cayenne and first saw Mum she already had a four-year-old kid.’ She smiled appreciatively. ‘You’ll need to fix and see my mum one day. She’s still pretty good, but in the teens I’ll say she was sensational. Though not every guy is too fussy after a few years inside! Anyhow the kid didn’t bother Dad, and Frank once told me that he learned a lot from the old man. Like throwing a knife for example.’
‘But you’d rather keep them out of our immediate business?’
She slithered out of her blouse and threw her bra across the floor. ‘Yes. And am I glad to be quit of that!’
Grant was amused. Krystelle neither wore nor needed to wear a bra. ‘Unusual isn’t it?’
‘You think so? Well, I’m broad-minded, but what some guys do in a crush is dead kinky, so I wear one when flying or when in Italy. Remember that chilly stop-over in Rome and the queue at the bookstall? There must’ve bin five or six pairs of hands groping from behind and screaming they wanted a paper or something. But they didn’t miss a trick.’ She smiled briefly, but her voice became sarcastic. ‘I got three down the shins with the heels of my sandals, which are heavier than you might think, and a little fat man got my elbow in his navel, or maybe lower down if I was lucky. But speaking as a man, David, why do they do it? This whole tit cult’s got out of hand. One woman I know even paints them green. Or sometimes one green and the other black. Imagine!’
Grant knew that Krystelle was playing one of her favourite games and doing a strip to vocal accompaniment knowing that he would enjoy every minute of it. ‘Maybe they don’t get enough at home.’
She giggled. ‘Vive le porne! It lets square little girls walk out nights without fear of being raped, but when some dirty-minded fanatic starts a purity campaign it’s time for even girls like me to put up a curfew and stay home. Inside every one of these jazzed-up purity leaguers there’s a nutty pervert screaming to get out. Or did some other dame say that before me? Anyhow it’s true. So vive le porne and let’s get into that sack at long last. You talk too much.’ She unzipped her hipsters and held her arms high above her head. ‘I’m ready to dive. Get organised. Be like Harry . . . efficient . . . and take it all nice and slow. Right now I got lesbian tendencies and want soft, gentle love. No gymnastics.’ Her voice suddenly thickened. ‘Like that, lover-man. Just like that. Nice and slow. It feels good even if your beard does remind me of sandpaper, so keep it up till Krystelle tells you to speed the tempo.
‘But you know, this makes no kinda sense! Why the Hell should a doll like me get kicks out of an unshaven quack like you? It makes the mind boggle. And what is “boggling” anyhow? What is a “boggle”? What gives when a mind “boggles”? Oh David man, oh man, but you’ve got those hormones really going now. Say! Maybe they’re boggling too. Or are we “boggling”? It feels like it. Boggle! Boggle! Boggle! Cheeze but this dysrhythia is good! If this is what happens when a couple gets seven hours out of joint I’m for making it fifteen next time.’
Her voice became urgent. ‘Hi! If you wanna save my life get me on to the bed.’
Grant sometimes thought that Krystelle’s muscles were made of combined high tension elastic and whipcord moulded together by inlays of foam rubber. She was also the first woman he had ever known who could make fun of sex and laugh even while she was jockeying him into orgiastic ecstasy. Her body could yield into babylike softness, or thrust into overdrive within almost the same second, yet after almost torturing him with urgency she could ring a mood change, and with fingers dipped in magic somehow swing them both into a crashing climax which would quiver on, and on, and on, until every last thought had been smothered by a sense of all-pervasive peace.
But when she felt that he was uptight it was never a peace which was allowed to last. ‘My game, I think. Now your bid. Make it rubber and set.’ Her voice was still huskier than usual, but she sounded in good form. ‘On second thoughts forget rubber,’ she added. ‘Vive le pill.’
Grant felt her long hair drag slowly over his chest and her lips lie warm against his ribs. Her toes were tickling the soles of his feet and he knew that she was laughing. When she chose to set the pace he could only cooperate, but he figured that she was now expecting him to make a fast come-back. Krystelle always acted this way when she had a hunch that they were shortly going to operate, once again, on the brink of trouble. She always seemed afraid that this might be the last time until dangerous loose ends had been tied up, and she became desperate to love as they had never loved before.
But while Grant knew that Krystelle was scared of no man or woman she detested uncertainty, and when she loved at a time like this she wanted to feel that each love-in had taken her to the edge of death itself. Orgasm, for Krystelle, was to die a little and then to feel a whiff of Paradise.
‘I’m just rising from the dead,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t even know what world I’m in.’
‘Me too,’ whispered Krystelle. ‘But life’s funny. The better we can make it now the better we’ll be when we start other operations. Same as ballroom dancers. If they don’t sleep together and become one hundred per cent sympatique to the slightest nuance in change of direction or whatever they’ll never win the big cup. Fact.’
‘You really do believe that?’
‘I know it. And don’t forget I also got some know-how about white magic. Or have you forgotten St. Thomas?[2] The better we can love, the better, later, we’ll be able to throw a bullet and kinda hate. Though contrariwise is also true. Guys who’ve got the right equipment don’ go around starting big trouble.
‘They did an autopsy on what was left of Hitler and he was fifty per cent short on essential apparatus. Napoleon couldn’t have interested any self-respecting doll because his balls were atrophied like a couple of marbles. Old man Mussolini was a li’l plump guy with a li’l plump zab . . . or so a coupla old women in Rome were telling Harry last year . . . which is why he went around overcompensating. When Genghis Khan ran amuck in Central Asia the mothers just smiled and said to their daughters, “Relax. Genghis Khant.” Get me? Also overcompensating! One or two British Prime Ministers must have had problems or else why divorces and all that jazz? De Gaulle was so damn big he must have had as many technical difficulties as a giraffe in getting to home base. Only he wasn’t a giraffe, to whom, one supposes, everything comes natural. Anyhow de Gaulle had one gawdawful chip on his shoulder and there’s a rumour in Paris it was because he felt like a St. Bernard trying to make the big time with mini-poodle. When he was younger of course, not after he got hitched and settled down, but by that time he was traumatised and compensated legitimate by digging for the glory of France. Anything in a name!’ She paused.
‘One or two rumours about Stalin as well. Guys with moustaches like his are usually dead kinky. But that apart, honey-chile, Uncle Joe either had an early menopause or something which, according to my sources, is why he shot up his pals instead of concentrating on glamour pussies from Circassia. And look at these Roman Emperors! The only ones who didn’t beat up some inoffensive tribe or other were so busy laying broads from all over the Empire that they hadn’t time for anything else. No, David boy, take it from Krystelle. If you get plenty of the right stuff you feel good and you don’t cause trouble. And if you’ve got trouble forced on you because of some maladjusted pin-head we’ve a better chance of coming out tops if we get shot of our own aggressions and can handle the job nice and clinical like. Get me?’
Grant saw his chance. ‘Come out tops, I think you said.’ He laughed, and caught her off balance with a hand below her left arm-pit. She fell sideways, legs kicking, and suddenly caught Grant’s thighs in a fast body-scissors which locked him in position in the opening gambit of her favourite routine.
‘You talk too much,’ he whispered.
He felt her thigh
s slowly relax and then gently swing upwards. ‘We going to do that Swedish stuff?’
‘Yes.’ Grant rubbed his chin along the side of her neck. ‘And afterwards I’ll shave.’
Her nails rippled down his back, hard enough to scratch, yet not hard enough to hurt. ‘A new one on me! Till you showed me, I mean. Where did you pick it up?’
‘In an igloo in Greenland. Spent the night there once with an Esquimaux family.’
‘Sure and it lasted six months. I’ve heard that one before. But no kidding. Who taught you?’
Grant felt her wriggle closer and snuggle tight against him. ‘A girl in Paris. You’ve met. She used to be my secretary till we found that she came from Peking.’
Krystelle tensed slightly. Memory of the Girl from Peking could still excite her, because had it not been for Jacqueline de Massacré David Grant and she might never have met. ‘Okay,’ said Krystelle abruptly. ‘But all I can say is she must have been fit. I need a Sauna bath afterwards to get rid of the aches. And what yo’ waitin’ for? Thinking of Jacqueline? I’ll show you.’ She erupted into action and thrust against Grant with a violence which hurt. He had known her react like that only once before and remembered all she had ever said about hunches. This time, he thought grimly, she had got it bad. And the white magic angle worried him. It wasn’t natural. Yet it was fact. As much fact as the writhing girl beside him. ‘Easy, honey,’ he said quietly. ‘Everything’s gonna be okay.’
She giggled as he tried to imitate the weird American accent which she sometimes switched on when in certain moods. ‘Sure,’ she grinned, ‘sure. But we’ll cut the risk margin by doing this real good. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘So just kid yourself you’re tangling with an expert like the de Massacré doll and put yourself out a bit. Get me? Fantasise. I’m the Queen of the Cats and you’re Uncle Tom. I’m Cleopatra and you’re the asp waiting for a bite. Or say, man, I’m just a pretty li’l country gal an’ you’re a city slick who’s brought her up to see his etchings. Mastermind me and then we’ll think of other things maybe less important.’
Grant gritted his teeth and set out to please. Krystelle, he knew, would relax only when he had exhausted her and left her satiated with pleasure, yet knowing that every faculty was razor sharp and that at last she would be able to concentrate on the future. He played with her as a skilled musician would use his instrument, tantalising, coaxing, harmonising and building up a crescendo of tension which was suddenly released in a furious, lingering climax which rocked every sense and left the girl limp, with eyes closed and a faint smile playing around her lips.
They slept for an hour and Grant wakened to find her sitting by the edge of the bed stroking his hair and daubing his cheeks with a refresher pad. She kissed him very lightly. ‘That was nice, David. You’ve made me happy.’
Grant lit a cigarette. ‘I feel pretty good too.’
‘So now we can make love.’ Krystelle reached for her favourite Romeo y Julieta Très Petit Coronas and sighed contentedly as the rich, wispy smoke spiralled past her nostrils. ‘People keep mixing up love and passion. They think “making love” is having a good screw. But that’s nothing. Just a normal animal appetite, though mighty good for the soul if it’s done right. Making love is much more important. Like just touching your fingers or stealing a little kiss, or watching you smile when I come near. Anyhow, now we’ll sleep. And you’ll hold me, and you’ll cup my breast with your hand, and your arm will go heavy across me when you fall asleep. I’ll know if you dream because your legs will go twitchy and then I’ll stroke your cheeks and kiss the dreams away.’
‘They might be nice dreams.’
‘Not with that flash from Paris in your pocket. And wondering what you’re going to wire to Juin tomorrow. Or thinking about this guy Goodenough and his cold-eyed side-kick.’
Grant felt very sleepy. ‘That Chinese driver,’ he said slowly. ‘As for Li. You know. Li. I got an idea I’ve seen him before.’
Krystelle smiled cynically. ‘One darned Chinese looks like another to me. How come?’
‘My mind gets sharp when I’m real tired and just before I drop off. Well, that’s how I feel now and something tells me we’ve met before.’
Krystelle knew more about Grant’s hunches than any other person left alive. ‘Meaning that the taxi met us on purpose.’
‘Could be.’
The house phone rang as he spoke and Krystelle lifted the receiver. ‘Message at the desk,’ she said. ‘They’ll send it along.’
The girl slipped into a housecoat and Grant went to the shower as footsteps paused outside the door.
He heard the tinkle of coins and the sing-song voice of a youngish Thai boy speaking English. When he joined her in the sitting-room she had already read the message.
professor juin died this afternoon paris funeral private thursday no flowers. stop felix.
‘Felix?’ The name was new to Krystelle.
‘Code name for urgent.’ Grant was tired after his flight, switched off after a long session of love-making and almost asleep on his feet, yet years of training which had produced a built-in lust for survival helped to jack him up. ‘Us next. Or at least me. And it could happen any time, since they, whoever “they” turn out to be, seem so competent. Not too many people know we’re here but enough to make it risky. In fact it was a kind of hunch about possible bugs which made me wise you up in the garden. So it might be a good idea to fade. Put essentials into a handbag. Toothbrush and razor only for me. The front entrance is sort of public, so we can slip through these French windows. Any comments?’
‘Maybe coincidence!’
‘Coincidences like that don’t happen,’ said Grant. ‘And if they do don’t believe them. That way you maybe live.’
‘Just as you say.’ Krystelle felt that Grant was rushing his fences more than usual, but on balance she had to admit that a change of address was probably wise.
Ten minutes later they passed the spirit house and pointed for the trees beyond. The moon was a thin half circle and the roar of traffic loud after the peace of their rooms. She clung tight against Grant’s arm, and their heads were close together as they began to feel that they were blending with their background when a young girl stepped directly into their path. She was very young, and her smile was friendly. ‘Excuse please.’
Grant paused. Her smile was infectious and she was holding a hibiscus in her right hand. ‘Yes?’
‘Five friends round here have guns. Please don’t move or they kill you dead. Savvy?’
Krystelle made to open a cigarette-case, but the girl’s voice cracked with authority. ‘Not move. You die if I drop this flower. My friends very good shots.’ She bowed slightly. ‘Very sorry but this is a kidnapping. If you want to live for a little while longer be very careful.’
Chapter Two – ‘My name is Moogie’
Krystelle had seldom been surprised by anything. Life was such a stream of improbable happenings that she had learned to take almost everything in her stride. Yet a mid-teenage girl could still rock her poise. ‘Well, what now?’ she snapped. ‘Do we just stand here?’
‘The lady is angry. I’m sorry.’ Grant saw that the girl was serious. ‘But you must do what I say and walk to the main entrance where a taxi will arrive. You will see two men in front, but there will be others elsewhere whom you won’t see and it would be foolish to attract attention.’
‘So we lead the way?’
‘And I shall be just a little bit behind, ready to drop my flower if you make trouble. But it would be sad if innocent people were injured in a gun battle only because you failed to take advice.’
The swimming pool was packed with tourists watching a group of Japanese dancers and it seemed to Grant that there were more people than usual in both Golden Palms and Naga Bar, while a crowd of new arrivals were bustling round the foyer. He strode past the shop and through the main entrance door.
A cab ran alongside the lighted sidewalk and a boy opened the do
or. ‘After you,’ said Grant as the girl paused by his elbow.
She bowed slightly. ‘Visitors first.’
Her cool was infuriating. Two men were sitting in front, but only the driver paid any attention as the girl spoke rapidly in Thai. ‘I’ve just been explaining that you caused no trouble,’ she said at last. ‘Now let’s speak of other things. Did you have a good flight or are you tired?’
Grant closed his eyes. ‘Tired. May I sleep until we get to wherever we are going?’
‘Me too,’ said Krystelle abruptly.
‘Why not? You will be safe enough. Unless there is an accident of course. Our drivers are reckless and traffic is a problem.’
‘Well, we can hope,’ said Grant. The situation had him guessing, but the girl left no doubt as to who was in control. Only someone holding five aces could react as she was doing.
Krystelle’s head snuggled against his shoulder and a moment later he knew that she was asleep. He also knew that she would be feeling mighty small. This was the slickest kidnapping he had ever heard of and the men in front were impassive as Buddha. Cars were following behind but Grant knew where to draw the line. He had jacked himself up for a few moments and now he was bushed. He didn’t carry a gun. Not even a knife. Krystelle and he had gone on holiday with their guard down and been caught short. His three closest colleagues had been rubbed out and he began to understand why. The whole set-up reeked of quality efficiency. His name was also on the list and there was no reason why he shouldn’t go the same way. He was trying to weigh up Krystelle’s chances when he too fell asleep.
The car was parked inside the compound of an old Thai wooden house when the rooflights were switched on and Krystelle wakened to find the girl standing outside with a tray in her hands. ‘Tea,’ she explained. ‘And some hot refresher cloths. Then you’ll feel quite a lot better. But a word of warning. Be wise and stay under the lights until I come back. My friends want to see what you are doing.’
Paradise Spells Danger Page 2
