Black Champagne

by George B Mair

  ‘A special messenger should arrive with some sort of advice before our three days are up. Far East H.Q. is very much on the ball, so we can expect action at the double.’

  ‘But as at present our only objective is to seek and destroy this U.N.O. official?’ said Grant.

  ‘Correct.’

  Grant watched a nurse quietly clear away coffee trays and then risked a question. ‘I take it that the evidence against him would stand up in court?’

  Juin forced a smile. It was the one point which bothered him. His own information, to date, was virtually nil. The Admiral had simply disappeared into thin air after their telephone conversation, and only the rose order to a certain Interflora branch showed that he had checked in at Kowloon. Their Interflora code system had shortcomings, but for simple things it worked well enough, and the Dorothy Perkins roses left nothing to doubt. ‘Safe arrival in Hong Kong, have contacted our people at H.Q. there and advise you to carry on as arranged.’

  He lit another cigarette, his second that day, and inhaled deeply. ‘Miss Sidders mustn’t be forgotten. She knows what the Admiral is doing and no doubt approves. So one must assume that in her estimate Ferguson’s statement under your truth analysis is acceptable.’

  Grant could read between the lines. Juin had his own doubts. Which meant that he would restrict Grant’s plan of campaign until another order from Hong Kong had both dotted every doubtful ‘i’ and crossed every suspect ‘t’.

  ‘Exactly,’ Juin sounded tired. He had scarcely been in bed for almost forty-eight hours. ‘For the moment we must handle things delicately. But I shall personally deliver your note to M’mselle Krystelle this evening. Until then I must get some sleep. Any further points?’

  Grant shook his head. ‘Just the usual routine. But I’d like to wear our shoes with pivoting heels and some spare nerve gas containers. Perhaps Servicing could also double check on my Parker Pen. And it had better lay on a few spare mini-rockets. They can be concealed inside cigars. Then please see that my usual signet ring is leaded. The needle is tending to get blunt and I’ll need my wrist watch remagnetised. Just the usual. But Krystelle will see to her own stuff. She normally carries knives and a gun so she won’t want anything from stores. She likes to use old familiar friends and will probably play it solo.’

  Juin rose from his chair and stifled a yawn. ‘Relax now, David. And know that Thursday night should see you en famille in one of the world’s most enchanting spots ever.’ He smiled nostalgically. ‘St. Thomas is a little fragment of Paradise. A sort of Garden of Eden.’

  Grant’s jaw tightened. ‘Complete with snake or snakes and all traditional inconveniences.’

  Professor Juin stubbed out his cigarette. ‘One pays a price for everything. But at least you’ll do the snake hunting under blue skies and surrounded by some of the best Caribbean scenery.’

  And, thought Grant cynically as he watched his immediate chief leave the room, he would be accompanied by someone to whom the whole Caribbean scene was second home. With Krystelle by his side he could hardly miss.

  Chapter Four – ‘This feels nearer Heaven’

  The sunset was almost incredible, a vast expanse of sky aflame with every shade of crimson and orange which faded into deep violet blackness as night crept over the bay and lights began to twinkle along the streets of Charlotte Amalie five minutes’ taxi ride below.

  Grant slipped his arm around Krystelle’s waist and thrilled as he felt her snuggle against him. ‘Like it, honey chile?’

  Her teeth flashed in a broad smile. ‘Sure do. The Indies got light an’ things a girl misses in Paris. This feels nearer Heaven.’ A thought crossed her mind. ‘Why do they call them the Virgin Islands, ’cos my guess is there ain’t a virgin over fourteen in the place.’

  Grant laughed. She was maybe right at that. ‘Columbus found them in 1493 and called them after St. Ursula’s 11,000 virgins who died defending their chastity.’

  Krystelle looked at him wide-eyed. ‘They must’ve bin crazy. Tell me more.’

  ‘Then England’s Sir Francis Drake rebaptised them some time later in honour of the virgin Queen Elizabeth who had hired him.’

  Krystelle laughed again. ‘Then nuts to him as well! That dame got it from anybody willing and able if what I read between the lines at school is half right.’

  Grant let it slide. What Elizabeth or Drake had done left him cold. But he knew that the girl was interested. ‘Then they became a happy hunting ground for Spanish, French, Dutch, Danes and English until America bought some from the Danes in 1917.’

  ‘How many bucks?’

  Grant was never allowed to forget that Krystelle was a business woman. ‘Three hundred American per acre. Twenty five million for the lot. And one of the best investments Uncle Sam ever made. Land now costs at least thirty thousand dollars an acre, so the deal paid off.’ A thought crossed Grant’s mind, a statistic which would amuse Krystelle. ‘But they’ve got a water shortage. Water rates are high for residents and it costs about thirty-five cents to flush the loo.’

  She grinned wickedly. ‘Maybe the wise guys economise. A lotta greenery around! I like this Charlotte Amalie place. Got colour.’ She glanced at the sky. ‘Pity these sunsets don’ last long. Tel me moah about St. Thomas and Charlotte Amalie.’

  ‘St. Thomas is one of the three largest Virgins. St. Croix and St. John are the others. They are about forty odd miles east of Puerto Rico and convenient for the American mainland. Charlotte Amalie is capital of St. Thomas and the only free port on American soil. Anyone born on the Virgin is a Native. Anyone coming from the mainland is called a Continental. Luxuries are cheap but essentials dear. The place was real wild in the thirties, a sort of poor man’s St. Tropez or Capri with a lot of queers riding their own hoppy horses. But now it’s gone respectable and the queers who settled down have become squares.’

  Krystelle allowed her hair to caress the side of Grant’s cheek and felt his arm stiffen as it lay against her hips. She was sensitive to his every mood and could read him like a book. ‘But not yet, man,’ she said softly. ‘A li’l patience. Krystelle’s enjoying herself. A free port you said?’

  ‘Sure. Like Hong Kong or Macao.’

  ‘With no colour problems?’

  ‘None that matter. Negroes hold a lot of government jobs and local natives are the aristocracy of the Caribbean.’

  ‘Any other bits of history you’ve forgotten to tell me?’ said Krystelle. ‘This is only my second visit and ah want to feel at home.’

  Grant knew what she was after. She was operating on newish ground and looking for a weak spot. But the Negroes were loyal to America and had forgotten feuds of earlier days. Until he remembered! One small part of Charlotte Amalie had been taken over by French refugees from St. Barthélemy who had quietly monopolised a strip of land at the west end of St. Thomas harbour and until recently called it Cha-Cha Town. Now they were trying to change the name to French Town, but the old name had a sales value for tourists since the cha-cha-cha dance had originated there from the cha-cha people descended from these refugees. It was a sort of shanty place near the one-time Gallows Hill where some of the locals were outstandingly handsome but others degenerate after generations of in-breeding.

  ‘Dangerous?’ There was a glint of speculation in Krystelle’s eyes as she smiled the question.

  Grant hesitated. ‘Could be.’

  ‘Willing to take a chance at smuggling?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he agreed. ‘Though pointless in a free port.’

  The girl paused and lit a small cigarette. ‘But this Cha-Cha place rates as a tourist attraction. It don’t cause local trouble. Safe, if you see what I mean.’

  Grant nodded. He was beginning to see. ‘So, since every second guy is a fisherman or sump’in’ it wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if he commuted between a lotta islands, would it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And since half of these little islets are uninhabited it wouldn’t be difficult to make a cache. Any one of them might
hold a lot of stuff, even nowadays. Treasure trove. Currency. Dollars. Gold. Maybe drugs even. And Cha-Cha Town would be just the place for a contact man to hide out or be unobtrusive. Do a sort of chameleon act and live real nice.’ Krystelle was operating from first principles. Blend with the background. Find a respectable area for headquarters. Run a front which allows contact with outsiders and make sure there’s a safe escape route ready for instant use.

  Then find who has been, or can be, corrupted. The man with a chip on his shoulder or find that stratum of society which has a grievance and can be relied on to co-operate with established authority. Assess what is in local short supply, arrange a deal and get the donkey work done by hired labour where possible.

  ‘Everyone in Charlotte Amalie is a chameleon,’ Grant said at last. ‘So many types come that hardly anyone can be conspicuous even if they tried.’ He pointed to the harbour berth where three large cruise ships were at anchor, P and O’s Chusan, the France and the Andes. Rotterdam lay at anchor a few hundred yards out, so, clearly, at least five thousand tourists were mixing with 38,000 locals and a few more thousand landlubbing holiday-makers. Only Congolese Pygmies or an Eskimo would be noticed in any bar round the entire coast line.

  The girl suddenly turned from the spacious balcony to their bedroom behind and switched on a subdued pink table light. ‘You look tired, David. How about a lie down before dinner?’

  He looked at her with open admiration. She was wearing a Parisian fashioned pair of tight lilac slacks and a green top which revealed two inches of midriff gleaming like tawny satinwood in the dim light. Her forearms carried a row of bracelets from wrist to near elbow and long coral drops dangled provocatively from neat, finely moulded ears. Her brown eyes were dancing with mischief and he knew that she was going to throw a party. ‘What are you wearing tonight?’ he said abruptly.

  She strolled towards the wardrobe and opened the door with a flourish. ‘Kaftan,’ she said briefly and pointed to the flared crimson gown which hung inside. Dropping sheer from a tight, high neck he knew enough about design to realise that she was going to be a sensation. ‘But dinner under the moonlight first and then dancing in Pirate’s Parlour. Maybe we could show them some real cha-cha-cha. Might be appropriate, Huh!’

  He smiled as he guessed her technique. She would stick out a mile when on parade, but he knew that by contrast she would explore every back street dressed like a street gamin whom no one would recognise, and that by the following evening she would have put her finger on the pulse of the place. ‘You look pretty good after that flight.’

  She kicked off her slippers. ‘Experience. I learned long time ago to sleep anytime, anywhere and anyhow.’ She paused. ‘Sleep comes natural when you’re not doing anything else. So Krystelle jes’ slept, and slept good.’

  She stared at him impersonally. ‘I like you better the other way. That hair style doesn’t help you any. Lost your curls. And the suit is pure corn. Looks like a second-rate spiv from Caracas or somewhere.’ She flashed her arms above her head and wriggled out of her top. ‘Get it off, David. A man can’t be nice to a girl when he looks like a Catalonian gigolo. Or will I help you?’

  ‘You help,’ he said. He liked to watch the play of light on her skin and the way she could tilt her head as she leaned over him, unzipped flies or unhooked buttons, and starting at the neck eased off bow tie and shirt, then T-shirt and briefs.

  She smiled with genuine surprise. ‘You got a lot of colour on you, David. Out of a bottle or natural?’

  He laid his arm along her shoulder and compared. ‘But a bit to go before I can equal you.’

  She jabbed a finger against his ribs. ‘No cracks. Krystelle can say she’s a fifty-seven variety multi-caste, but sometimes she’s just a li’l bit sensitive. So watch it, David.’ Her manner suddenly changed and he realised that she had come to a decision. Her voice became urgent. ‘I’d like to, David. But have a sleep first. You need it. You worried all the way from home. This isn’t the time. And you’ve been through the works recently. Take it easy for an hour or so, honey, and let me sing you to sleep.’

  She gently pushed him against the sheets, unclipped her bra and sat down on the bed beside him. She knew enough of the story to realise what he must be feeling, and she had decided to mother him. Passion would come later. But right now he needed a gentle love and her husky voice could compose all the tension which had built up over the past week. She allowed his hand to lie across her body and closed his eyes with a kiss. He felt her fingers caress his forehead and then she began to sing some of his favourite Caribbean songs Mary Ann, Island in the Sun, Cu-Cu-Ru-Cu-Cu Paloma and Island Woman until at last he fell asleep.

  Two hours later he felt the steady pressure of fingers against his neck and the long massaging strokes which Krystelle always used to waken him. She was now humming a Calypso, If You See Me Brown Girl, and he could smell the drink which she must have brought to the side table by the bed. Banana daiquiri was his favourite first drink after getting organised on St. Thomas and she had remembered his habit. It was a new one to her, but she knew as well as he did that every island had its special daiquiri. It just happened that the banana brand was local specialty. He opened his eyes and she stopped singing. ‘First a little kiss.’ She kissed him lightly on each cheek. ‘Then a proper kiss.’ Her lips folded over his mouth and for a long moment he sensed the passion which was building up within her. ‘But now a shave.’ She ran his Lektronic razor over his face until it was smooth as velvet, and as she snibbed it off she handed over the daiquiri. ‘To us, David. And to happy hunting.’

  He raised his glass and wondered what magic this woman possessed that was unknown even to Maya. He hated to be seen in public even by his mistress unless he had shaved. Yet he almost enjoyed the way she accepted him at all times as he was, though he knew that she was as fastidious as himself. The one difference was upbringing and experience. She was more ready to accept some things than most people. Natural things came to her naturally. In fact she was almost a child of nature in spite of a life which would have corrupted most girls. But she had no illusions, and she never wore a mask where friends were concerned.

  She had changed and was now wearing a loose housecoat, but he knew that there was nothing beneath it except one of the most desirable bodies he had ever seen.

  ‘You’re good for me, Krystelle,’ he said at last. ‘I feel a new man.’

  She leaned forward and for an instant laid her cheek against his lips. ‘You’re good for me too. But do we feed here or outside?’

  Grant shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Then we’ve got an hour before they close that restaurant. Drink up. Treatment’s not over yet.’ She drained her glass and slipped off her housecoat. He had a glimpse of shimmering skin before she pressed out the light and slipped in beside him. Her muscles were taut with power and he remembered that her physical stamina was fantastic. But for the moment she relaxed while they wriggled gently into a favourite embrace, and then, with mounting abandon crescendoed into that frenzy of ecstasy which rose to a controlled peak of givingness and contentment.

  ‘Say, David,’ she said at last. ‘That pill thing was a great discovery, wasn’t it? Makes everything so nice and easy. Feeling good?’

  He smiled in the darkness. Maya could never have come away with a comment like that. It was a difference in temperament. And perhaps it was this very animal naturalism of Krystelle which helped to make her almost unique. Nor did he need to ask any questions. Krystelle was happy. She too had shared a peak moment and she too had cleansed herself of tension, if she knew what the word meant, because he suspected that tension was a thing unknown to her. But at least she had conditioned herself to contentment, and that was the same sort of idea in the end. ‘Still in a Kaftan mood?’

  He felt her smile and her teeth nibbled gently at the side of his neck. ‘Crimson and gold for Krystelle tonight. I’m in the mood to shine.’

  ‘And our friends?’

  She gi
ggled slightly. ‘One has gotten himself a Creole and the other’s tied up with a jet black piece from Haiti. They’ll be okay. Forget them, honey, and let’s get ourselves into shape for tomorrow.’ She began to sing, this time a couplet from a Trinidadian calypso.

  ‘In de island of Grenada dey grow nutmeg

  Ebery woman in de place got a bandy leg.’

  He placed a hand over her mouth. ‘Mary Ann, honey chile. That calypso’s too hot even for air-conditioning the way you rewrote the lyrics. So concentrate on Mary Ann.’

  She had a bewildering tendency to change mood, and he sensed that she was suddenly serious when she broke into one of his favourite songs. Until he remembered that she was always serious when she knew that he wanted something important. This was her way of getting rid of stress. She wanted him to be fit for the day which lay ahead. And she wanted him to be in sparkling form when they made their début that night among people to whom a thousand dollars was no more than a little small change.

  The song ended and he felt her suddenly lean across towards the bed light. As she switched it on she ended sitting astride his body. Her long eyelashes were blinking in the light and her silhouette reminded him of figurines in a museum in Egypt. But he also knew that she was posing so that he could admire her, and because she knew that he loved the sheer perfection of her body just as another man loved the perfection of a piece of sculpture. If he wanted more, then he would get it. But if he was content simply to look she would be content knowing that he was happy.

  This time he lit the cigarettes. It was a tactful way of saying ‘Play it cool for a little!’ She understood and smiled quietly as she fitted one into her holder. It was a time to listen, and the sound of steel drum music was rippling through the open window which gave to their private balcony. He could see the darkness of the sea beyond and the moon reflecting against the curves of the bay. Voices were laughing around the pool and he could hear the splash of someone diving into shallow water. There was magic in the air, but he also knew that he owed it all to Krystelle. She had forced him to stop thinking. And that alone had done him good. Almost unconsciously he stubbed out his cigarette and allowed his hands to caress the sweeping line of her neck until they dropped to cup the sheer perfection of her breasts.