by Troy Conway
“Present company excepted,” I amended.
He shook his head. “Present company included, Damon. Far be it from me to demean the talents of America’s favorite Coxeman. But I’m afraid that Superman goes even you one better.”
“How can he?” I demanded.
“So, it would seem, is Superman. Maybe he’s not a priapist. But there’s no question that he’s a long-distance runner –and he’s got one hell of a track record. Back in Havana he used to take on twelve women a night, and send them all away satisfied. That’s an impressive score. Furthermore, he’s reputedly one of the most generously endowed studs ever created.”
“Well,” I said cattily, “it’s not what you’ve got but what you do with it that counts.”
Walrus-moustache grinned. “Evidently he does quite a bit. Belgravia has developed its bomb, and not one of the nine female physicists has returned to her home country.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Still, Superman doesn’t have your academic background in sexology, so maybe you’re a better man than he is. Your country is hoping that you are, because, if you’re not, the whole world is in one hell of a fix.
“ My jaw squared resolutely. “Let me at the nine female physicists. Well sea who’s the better man.”
“That’s precisely what I have in mind. Which brings us to your new mission. As I said, Red China has a spy in the Belgravian harem. She’s a twenty-three-year-old cutie named Su Wing, who went to Belgravia to help stir up the Peoples’ United Front and somehow or other wound up as President Douzi’s mistress. She’s a member of CHILLER–our code name for the all-female spy network which is part of Mao’s ‘Chinese Intelligence and Espionage Agency.’ we’re going to send you to Africa, where you’ll meet CHILLER’S charge. d’affaires for this caper, a doll named Lin Saong. Once you’ve proved to her that you’re a bona-tide sex expert who can compete with Superman on his own turf, shall arrange to have Su Wing bring yon into the harem. Your job there will be to find out exactly where Douzi is storing his bombs. When you find out, you’ll tell Lin Saong, who’ll pass the word back to her bosses in Peking. China then will accuse Douzi before the United Nations, and hopefully the UN will be able to intervene before Douzi can get any closer to developing the Big Bomb that could spell curtains for all mankind.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “If Su Wing is so close to Douzi, why does Red China need me? And now that I think of it, why would Red China work through the UN–especially since it isn’t a member-nation?”
“I’ll answer your questions one at a time. Fit of all, Su Wing is very close to Douzi, but the Belgravian president, a male supremist at heart, won’t open up to her about where the bombs are located. Red China can’t find out anything more without tipping its hand, and that’s why an outside agent-namely you-has to join in on the hunt. we’re all hoping that you, by challenging Superman and gaining the confidence of the female physicists, can locate the bombs. Secondly, Red China’s motive for working through the UN is simply to become a member of the UN–or so we’ve been led to believe. We can’t overlook the possibility that Mao’s people might try something funny once they get the information they want They probably want the bombs for themselves. But that’s the chance we’ve got to take. Without Red China’s missionary work in this caper, we’d be absolutely nowhere. They’ve approached us on a one hand-washes-the-other basis. Lacking a better solution to the bomb problem, we’ve got to take them at their word.”
“So,” I summarized, “you want me to play footsie with the Red Chinese against a country that may not even be guilty of what we suspect it of, and we all know from the start that we might get double-crossed somewhere along the way.”
“Exactly. I’ll admit it’s not a very desirable arrangement. But it’s the arrangement Red China offered us, and when you’re the poorboy at the party, you’re not in a position to complain about the quality of the hors d’oeuvres.”
“But what do we do if Red China does double-cross us? I mean, we’re not simply going to accept what they say on blind faith, are we?”
He chuckled softly. “Not quite. According to the deal I worked out with CHILLER, you’re supposed to transmit all the information you get to Lin Saong via radio. I’m going to send another Coxeman to Belgravia with yon, a man named Dave Wexler. He’s the best radioman we have. It’ll be his job to learn the beacon you’re using to transmit your messages to Lin Saong, then to intercept them. When he does, he’ll then cue me in bad here in the States. I’ll be one step behind you all the way. If Red China tries a double-cross, I’ll know about it, and I’ll act accordingly. Hopefully the people who are supporting me will be able to undo any damage a double-cross might bring about.”
“Hopebully,” I echoed. “But judging from the way you describe things, it’s a very slim hope.”
“It is a very slim hope. But as I said, when you’re the poorboy at the party——”
I know, I know.” I heaved a king-sized sigh. “Oh, well, there’s one small consolation. At least I won’t be getting shot at this time, like in all my other capers for The Coxe Foundation.”
His brow furrowed. “Probably not. But before yon start feeling too secure, there’s something else I’ve got to tell you. You see, it’d play hell with world public opinion if anyone learned that the United States was cooperating with Red China on this mission. So, while it’s extremely unlikely that any dangers will befall you, we in The Coxe Foundation have got to protect ourselves.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just this. Under no circumstances are you at any time to reveal to anyone except Lin Saong and the people from CHILLER that you’re a U.S. agent. When you show up at the Belgravian harem, CHILLER’s inside operative, Su Wing, who has President Douzi believing that she’s a double-agent connected with PUF, will tell Douzi that you defected to Red China and that she arranged for you to be sent to Belgravia because she felt that you’d be useful in his enterprise. If all goes well, you’ll be permitted to challenge Superman—and you’ll get the information Red China and the other nuclear powers want, But if there are any slip-ups, if, for example, Douzi learns that you’re a Red Chinese spy, the United States won’t be able to bail you out. Once you leave for Belgravia, you’re on your own. As far as The Coxe Foundation is concerned, we officially don’t know you exist.”
“In other words,” I gulped, “if Red China pulls a double-cross, I’m the guy in the middle.”
“Precisely, Damon,” he said sadly. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, but it does. If Douzi ever discovers your secret and if he asks the United States to go to bat for you, we’ll back Su Wing’s story that you’re a defector.”
And with these cheery words, he sent me off to Belgravia.
With luck, I’d uncover Douzi’s bomb hideout, I’d relay the information to Lin Saong and Red China would take it’s claim against Douzi before the United Nations. But if I slipped up I’d either be dead or be branded a traitor. And if I refused to go I’d face a jail sentence.
How did I get into a mess like this?
As I zipped up my pants and prepared to take leave of Lin Saong’s hotel room in Port duBeers, I knew the answer. I got into it because a very mature looking sixteen-year-old who lied about her age in one of my research projects opened a door which led to lifetime servitude to The Coxe Foundation.
But there was another, much more important question that remained unanswered. Namely, now that I was in the mess, how the hell was I going to get out of it?
CHAPTER THREE
The car whipped around a sharp curve, then cut off the main highway and down a narrow dirt road. Hunched in a corner of the back seat, my wrists handcuffed behind me, I peered between the pretty heads of the twin cuties up front. The road snaked out before us, wending its way through a mud-thick jungle of lush red and green tropical foliage.
The cutie at the wheel was Girl Number One, who had played Hidden Gully to my Great General Lotus Stalk during the previous night’s festivities at Lin Saong’
s hotel room in Port duBeers. Sharing the front seat with her was Girl Number Two, who had squirmed so deliciously when I solved the riddle of her Mysterious Pearl.
The dynamic duo had picked me up at my hotel room right on schedule at seven a.m. CHILLER-chief Lin Saong had given them a few choice words of instruction. Then I had been dumped into the back seat of their car, and we had set off on the three-hour trek from Port duBeers to President Douzi’s harem somewhere on the outskirts of Rodin.
The trip had been an uneventful one. Shortly after we had left Port duBeers, the girls had begun looking at me desiringly, and for a moment I got the impression that they were considering stopping somewhere along the highway for another round of fun and games. But evidently they had decided that they couldn’t risk it, because the desiring looks had suddenly stopped. From then on we had traveled in silence.
Now, as we jounced along the bumpy dirt road, Girl Number Two started looking again. At first she confined her glances to my image in the rearview mirror. Then she swiveled around and stared at me directly. Her pert round breasts jiggled sexily against the top of the car seat and her moist pink lips parted invitingly as her pretty almond-shaped eyes did a slow tour of my body.
I smiled at her, and my hips took up a slow, undulating rhythm. Her eyes widened, and her tongue played prettily over the edges of her pearl-white teeth. She hesitated for a moment; then her slender arms reached out toward me, and her hands hovered provocatively over my groin.
I arched my hips to give her a better shot at the target, and she almost scored a bull’s-eye. But at the last minute Girl Number One shouted something in Chinese, and my pretty would-be playmate blushingly abandoned the game. I watched, disappointed, as she turned back to face the windshield. She muttered something to Girl Number One, and the plaintive sound of her voice told me that she was as disappointed as I was.
The car negotiated a series of hairpin turns, then slowly climbed a steep, winding hill. The foliage along the road grew thicker, and the limbs of the trees which extended over the roadway were so densely intertwined that only the tiniest flickers of sunlight managed to seep through. We inched a few hundred yards up the hill, and the jungle grew thicker still. Then, slowly, it began thinning out, and we emerged on the hilltop.
I found myself staring down into a valley circled completely by rolling hills. The sight was breathtaking. Like tiers of bleachers in a stadium, circular bands of multicolored tropical plants spiraled toward the valley’s floor. Burbling through the greenery were half a dozen shimmering, finger-thin streams. They met in a small lake, next to which was a vast, carefully manicured garden. In the center of the garden was a complex of four-story buildings, positioned around a septangular courtyard. A few hundred yards away from the complex was another cluster of buildings, these considerably smaller. And a few hundred yards from them was a third cluster, smaller still.
A strange sense of déjà vu overcame me. The scene was more than vaguely familiar, and I wondered where and when I’d viewed it before.
Then suddenly I remembed. It had been in Turkey eight years ago. I was studying Topkapi Sarayi, the famous pleasure palace of Muhammad II, fifteenth century ruler of the Ottoman empire.
Muhammad didn’t invent the ward “harem,” but he might as well have, because the word, as it’s used today, describes exactly the sort of multi-girl living arrangement which Muhammad raised to a he art.
In 1454, shortly after Muhammad’s troops had taka Constantinople, the Ottoman chief built a palace on that city’s well-known Third Hill. Being an energetic debauchee but also a man who liked to keep his distance from his womenfolk when he wasn’t folking with them, he divided the palace into two sections. The first, consisting of his library, his dining room, his bedroom and other room & which he wished to enjoy in privacy, was called selamlik, a Turkish word which translates approximately as “domain of the husband.” The second section, where his women were quartered, was called haremlik, which translates as “domain of the wife.”
In Muhammad’s case, of course, there was more that me wife. Indeed, according to the Italian writer, Domenico Hierosolimitano, in Relation della gran citta di constantinopoli (circa 1595) there were all of three hundred and seventy wives-and a hundred and twenty-seven eunuchs to keep them in line. Each evening, Muhammad would venture into the haremlik, bed down with one or more of the three hundred and seventy dolls, then retire to his selamlik for meditation, contemplation and, presumably, rest. Occasionally he would also offer the girls’ services to one or more of his friends. But at no time were the girls permitted to take lovers other than those assigned to them by Muhammad. In fact, from the moment they entered the haremlik, they were not permitted to leave until Muhammad tired of their charms and sent them on their way once and for all.
After Muhammad’s death, succeeding generations of Turkish rulers occupied the palace on the Third Hill and reveled amidst the pretties of the haremlik. Eventually the palace was abandoned, but the haremlik tradition continued until 1909, when Abdul-Hamid II, the last of the Ottoman emperors, was deposed. By this time the word, haremlik, had been shortened to harem, and had come to mean not a section of a house reserved for women but rather the institution of keeping a number of wives.
Now, in Belgravia, the institution was being continued by Dr. Albert Douzi, except that in his harem the “wives” were being served rather than doing the serving. However, while gender status might have been reversed, Douzi apparently was extremely faithful to the physical trappings whereunder the harem originated. As the car in which I was riding started down the winding road toward the floor of the valley, I could see that the President of Belgravia had duplicated exactly the buildings and the gardens of old Muhammad 11’s fifteenth century palace, Topkapi Sarayi, in Constantinople.
I wondered why he’d gone to the trouble. According to everything I’d been told by Walrus-moustache and Lin Saong, Douzi’s only interest in the harem idea was as a means of keeping the nine female physicists working on his bomb. Superman’s place in this scheme of things was logical enough. And it was conceivable that Douzi might have taken a few other pains to keep his physicist femmes happy –like showering them with diamonds from the duBeers mines. But what kicks would the girls get out of living in a carefully reconstructed palace the historical significance of which they probably didn’t even know about? And if the palace hadn’t been built for the benefit of the physicists, for whose benefit had it been built?
I was still wondering when my car pulled to a halt in front of a huge iron gate. A tall, slim, rifle-toting, black-skinned guard in a khaki uniform and pith helmet stepped from behind the gate and approached Girl Number One at the steering wheel. She handed him a slip of paper, which he read. Then he retreated to a small guardhouse and made a phone call.
A few minutes later another car appeared at the opposite side of the gate. A tiny Oriental girl with delicate features stepped out of the back seat. She said something to the guard, who bowed politely in reply. Then she came over to my car.
As she walked, a gentle breeze below her multicolored silky kimono against her. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes took in every curve of her succulent body. Her firm, round breasts nestled snugly under the soft, smooth fabric of the garment, and her slender legs stretched out enticingly before her, each step more compellingly drawing my attention to the Golden Crevice which lay at their apex, and which now was outlined so clearly against the windblown kimono that I could discern every delicious nook and cranny of its tantalizing topography.
She said something in Chinese to my trading companions. Then Girl Number One ushered me out of the back seat and unlocked my handcuffs, while Girl Number Two opened the car trunk and took out my suitcase. The wind had stopped blowing by this time, so I raised my eyes from the kimono and I gave a smile of greeting. “Su Wing?” I asked, knowing the answer well in advance.
She smiled back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Damon. I’m sorry we didn’t make each other’s acquaintance under
less strained circumstances. But then, one cannot always have things as one would like them, can one?”
“No,” I admitted, “one cannot.”
She gestured toward the gate. I shot Girl Number One and Girl Number Two a lascivious parting glance. Then I followed Su Wing to her car. She said something to the driver in a language I assumed to do one of the Belgravian tribal tongues, and we sped off.
“We haven’t much time to talk,” she told me once we were on our way, “so I’ll speak quickly. I assume that Lin Saong has briefed you thoroughly about all the details of the mission and how to transmit your findings to her.”
“She has “
“Fine, I’ll add a few about the general situation at the palace. Then, if you have any questions, we can discuss them. However, once you’ve become situated at the palace, we must keep our contact to a minimum. There you will speak to me only when absolutely necessary and only when we’re somewhere where we’re not likely to be overheard.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t want to get discovered any more than you do.”
Her smile told me that she was glad she was doing business with a fellow non-hero. It also told me, unless my imagination was playing tricks on me, that she wouldn’t mind testing my much-touted sexual expertise if the opportunity arose. I let my leg slide casually across the seat until it came to rest against the soft firmness of her kimono-draped thigh. She returned my pressure, and her smile broadened. I decided that my imagination wasn’t playing any tricks whatsoever.
The car turned down a narrow, tree-shaded lane. We passed a cluster of marble statues beneath a pomegranate tree. “Pretend you’re admiring the scenery,” Su Wig said. “I’ve told the driver to take us on a tour of the grounds. That should give us five or ten minutes to talk. He doesn’t understand English, so he’ll have no idea of what we’re saying.”
