by Nick Carter
She pushed me to my back, and began tracing moist maps on my body with her lips. Then, suddenly, she was straddling me. With her back arched, her breasts thrust out, her knees gripping my hips, she gripped my hands with hers and said, "I will dance for you."
I watched her face as she lowered herself slowly, inch by inch, into position. Her eyes blinked and went wide, her lips parted, she sucked in her breath. Then she began to dance, and the motion was all in her hips and pelvis. I caressed her. Her head went back in abandon as she worked to make up for four loveless years.
When she moved upward, I put an end to her dance and began one of my own. I brought her up over my head, holding her in the air. Then as she began struggling, furious that I had terminated her sensual gavotte, I brought her down, rolling to reverse our position.
"No!" she said, starting to wrestle. "No, no, no!"
After all, I Was her guest. I rolled back over, pulling her easily on top of me. Our thrusts became faster, more frantic. We moved as one now, and her eyes closed as she slumped forward, holding back the crest of our final wave.
I gently moved from under her, rolling us both over. Then I was looking down at her, feeling her legs come up to lock around me. Her fingers dug into my back, her teeth into my shoulder as she shuddered, "Please!" Now there was no holding back. We came together, an ecstatic shiver passing from my body to hers.
If we could have spent the rest of the night together, we might have written a new edition of Kama Sutra. As it was, Tasahmed was coming back to the real world.
"Why don't you kill him?" she said, as I lit one of my cigarettes for her.
"If I did that, where would you be?" I knelt down to look him over.
"No worse off than I am now, Edward."
"Oh, much worse off, Shema. He doesn't want anything to happen to you. But if anything happened to him here in your quarters — well, it's not worth the risk."
It wasn't worth it for another reason. Tasahmed dead wasn't any good to me. He might be, alive. At the same time if I questioned him in front of Shema there was no telling what I'd get. It would be the cart before the camel. The camel was Osman.
He had been Mendanike's arch enemy, and yet Ben d'Oko had gone to great lengths in order to have a meeting with him. It seemed logical that Osman would have refused to attend if he didn't have some prior indication of the purpose of the pow wow. It also seemed logical that Nick Carter had better have a meeting with Osman right away, before putting the Q and A to Tasahmed. So much for being logical.
"Shema, why don't you call the boys and have them take the general to bed. Tell them he fainted from the excitement." I began removing the gag.
She giggled. "You think almost as well as you make love. When he is gone we can have the rest of the night."
I didn't break the bad news to her. I held down the dressing room while two guards, somewhat puzzled but smirking, carted a groggy Arabian knight away to his pad.
"Now," she came waltzing into the bedroom, casting away the robe she had put on for the departure of the general, "this time we shall have the mirror to show us what we are enjoying." She threw her arms wide and pirouetted before me nude, a humming bird again.
I put my arms around her, knowing I'd probably hate myself in the morning. She responded. I applied pressure where it was least expected or desired. She stiffened momentarily and then went limp. I picked her up and carried her to the bed. I tucked her in and kissed her good night. Then I turned out the light, and after checking the courtyard from the window, exited with care.
Chapter 10
Hawk would have said that the time spent with Shema had been a dangerous waste. Maybe. But aside from the delight, I needed that wild blend of East-West creature as an ally, someone I could back against Tasahmed if the occasion arose. Still, a lot of time had been exercised away. I wasted no more of it, picking up the Fiat in front of the Commissariat de Police and heading for the embassy. When I pulled up at its gate I was through playing games.
The gate was closed. There was a bell and speaking box. I rang the bell with several long bursts. When I didn't get a play back, I rang again harder.
This time a voice interrupted, coming out of the wall speaker like a recorded message. "The embassy is closed until 0800 hours, sir."
"Is this the Marine guard? "I spoke into the box.
"Yes, sir, this is Corporal Simms."
"Corporal, do you know what a seven-five-three is?"
There was a momentary pause. "Yes, sir." There was more snap to it.
"Well, this is a seven-five-three, and I'd appreciate it if you'd let me in at once."
"Who are you, sir?"
"Mr. Sutton can tell you that. This is a seven — five — three. I want immediate action, Corporal."
Another momentary pause and then, "Stand by, sir."
I got back in the car, pleased that a suggestion made by AXE had become SOP with U.S. embassies and installations around the world. The idea was that with the increase in terrorism and kidnapping it was necessary that simple identification could be supplied at a moment's notice in an emergency. For each day there was a different sequence of numbers sent from Washington. Since AXE was the supplier, I always operated with the list memorized for two weeks running.
The gate swung open, and I drove through into a floodlit entrance area. For a welcoming committee there were three marines with M16s and Corporal Simms with a .45.
"Sorry, sir, you'll have to get out of the car," he said looking down at me. "Your identification, please."
"Mr. Sutton will supply that," I said climbing out. "Please get him."
"He's being contacted." The Corporal made a quick check of the car. I gave him the keys to the trunk. That was the end of the conversation. The Marines watched me as I lit a cigarette and waited for Sutton to shake his butt. It was a much nicer butt than Sutton's that finally arrived on the scene, but it infuriated me.
Paula Mathews was wearing tight-fitting twill slacks and a fur-lined flight jacket against the chill. With her Irish setter hair tucked up in a bun and her peaches-and-cream complexion still a bit smudged with sleep, she would have made a welcome addition to most any gathering. Even though the three marines didn't take their eyes off of me, they would have agreed.
"Do you know this man, Miss Mathews? "Corporal Simms asked.
"Yes, Corporal." She was a little out of breath and not sure whether she should be out of sorts. "What's the trouble, Mr. Cole?"
"Where's Sutton?"
"He's very tired and he asked me…"
"I'd like to use your phone, Corporal."
The corporal was a bit unsure. He looked at Paula for confirmation.
I supplied it instead. "That's an order, Corporal. Right now!" My tone would have gotten a nod from a boot camp drill instructor.
"Yes, sir!" The three of us walked to the guard installation in silence. In the small inner room he indicated the phone.
He left and I saw that Paula's face had the glow of her hair. "See here! Who do you think…"
"What's his number and don't waste time throwing a shoe."
With her fists clenched, eyes shooting sparks, she looked good enough to photograph. "Five, double zero, three," she hissed.
I turned and dialed the number. It rang for too long before Sutton came on complaining, "Paula, I told you…"
"Sutton, I need the use of the embassy plane right now. Shake your arse and alert the crew. Then get down here to the gate so Miss Mathews can go back to bed where she belongs."
I could hear the wires humming as he picked up his teeth. When he spoke he handed me mine. "The embassy plane is still in Tunis. I assume the crew is with it. Now if you think…"
"What I think will be put in writing and sent to your director at Langley. In the meantime, is there a back up plane?"
"No. There's only the Convair."
"Do you have facilities for charter?"
He snorted sarcastically. "From whom! There are no private sources. We're an embassy
. We don't own the country."
"I assume other embassies have aircraft. Are there no reciprocal agreements in case of an emergency?"
"It would take an ambassador to get action, and as you know… we have no ambassador." He smiled smugly.
"Let's put it another way. This is a Red One priority. I need an aircraft. I need it now. Can you help?"
There was another humming of the wires. "This is damned short notice, and in the middle of the night, besides. I'll see what I can do. Call me back in an hour." He hung up.
I turned and saw Paula studying me with a frown. "Can I help?" she said.
"Yup." I took out pencil and paper and began writing. "These are UHF transmission frequencies. Alert your communications people to monitor them. I may be calling in. My code name will be Piper. I'll be calling Charlie. Got it?"
"Well, where are you going?"
"Someday we'll sit on your patio, and I'll tell you all about it."
She walked out to the car with me. I climbed in. "Is Henry going to help?" she said.
I looked up at her. "Go to bed, Paula." I signaled the corporal to activate the gate switch.
Chapter 11
On some missions the breaks ride with you. On others you pick up a few as you go. On some you don't get any. I was brooding as I came around the corner on to Hans Gueyer's street. I figured he might have some ideas on how to hitch a plane ride to Budan.
The headlights shone down the narrow street. There was a single car parked on it, right beside Gueyer's gate. It was a dirt-coated Mercedes, bearing an official look. I drove past. It was empty or the driver was asleep on the seat. The last wasn't likely. I picked up speed and went around the comer. In my mind's eye I could see Erica in those shorts and turtleneck sweater.
I left the Fiat in the park. There was no pedestrian traffic, not even a stray dog to watch me sprint down the street that paralleled Gueyer's. I had the rope to get me over intervening walls and through the grounds of a villa that backed on Han's two story Moorish-style affair. It had a surrounding porch with arches and tile. A light shone from a window on the ground floor. Much as I wanted to home on it, I circled the house first.
There was no outside guard. There was only Thor, dead. He'd been shot several times. Between his clenched fangs was a piece of olive drab. I made for the fight in the window.
There was something about the scene that was reminiscent of an earlier one in which I had played an unsuspecting Peeping Tom. That one had had some comic overtones. There was nothing funny about this one. Hans Gueyer, his face puffed and bloodied, was struggling to get free from the grip of a heavy man in an olive green uniform who was half strangling him with one arm while he held the point of a knife against the mechanic's throat.
Hans' effort was not so much to escape his captor as it was to go to his daughter's rescue. Erica's clothes had been stripped from her and she was spread-eagled on the dining room table. Standing behind her, holding her wrists, was another recognizable charmer in olive green. Erica's legs hung down on each side of the table, her ankles secured with a rope. Standing at the table's end was an ugly sonofabitch. Dressed, he would have been in olive green, too. Overseeing and directing the homey little scene was Colonel Mohammed Doosa. He was seated facing the back of his chair with his chin resting on its crest.
I leave philosophy to the philosophers, but it has always been my belief that the only way to handle the rapist is by removing his ability to rape. In Shema's case I didn't think it would ever be rape, not at least in the sense of what was about to happen here. Erica had been gagged, and all the muscles in her body where taut and arching, screaming for release.
I saw Doosa nod his head at the slavering goon, heard Hans shout, "For crissake, I've told you everything!"
Then Wilhelmina spoke. Once for the would-be rapist who went down shrieking. Once to put a third eye in the head of Hans' tormenter. Once more to put paid to the third man who let Erica's wrists go in search of his weapon.
Doosa was on his feet, one hand on his .45. "Freeze, or you're dead!" I ordered in French. "Just give me the excuse, Doosa!" He thought better of it. "Get your hands over your head! Face the wall!" He obeyed.
Hans and Erica were in shock. "Hans!" I switched to English. "Come out of it! Grab a gun! If he so much as blinks, shoot him!"
Hans moved like a man sleep walking. I smashed out the remainder of the glass with the butt of Wilhelmina, anxious to get inside. By the time I'd done so Erica had freed herself and disappeared. The writhing character on the floor lay balled up and still in his own blood, unconscious or dead.
Hans was weaving on his feet, eyes glassy, not quite sure the nightmare had ended. I relieved him of the FN and patted him on the shoulder. "Get yourself a belt of some of that bourbon. I'll take care of things here."
He nodded dumbly and went tottering through the door to the kitchen.
"Turn around." I said to Doosa.
He came around anxious to see if I was who he thought I was. He had the start of a smirk as he said, "Vous serez…"
My backhand across his chops not only removed the smirk and stopped the words, the force of it also slammed his head against the wall and started a red flow from his lips.
"You will be quiet," I said as his momentary shock turned to confined rage. "You will answer when you are spoken to in the manner you instructed me earlier. Don't tempt me. I'm on the thin edge of disembowling you. What do you want from these people?"
"The bloody bastard wanted to know what I knew about the crash." Hans had washed his face, had his bottle in hand, and although he was still breathing like a man who had run too far, his rasping voice was back in tune and the glassiness had gone from his eyes. "Only he wouldn't believe me when I told him. Lemme smash this bottle on his skull!" He came forward, the intention written on his bruised face.
"Go see how Erica is." I grabbed him by the arm.
He suddenly remembered Erica and went charging off, calling her name.
"Why do you care what he knows about the crash?"
Doosa shrugged. "It's my job to care. If he knows how it happened, then he must know who made it happen. You will be well advised…"
My fist didn't travel far. It jack-knifed him. I waited until the wretching stopped and he came back up, then I played back his own record to him, "I said you will answer, not make stupid sounds. Obviously he doesn't know who, even if he does know how. Or do you think he'd refuse to answer while you let one of your apes rape his daughter?"
Doosa's voice whistled in his throat. "It is my job to find out."
"Mine, too." I shoved the luger in his gut and stuck Hugo's point under his chin. "My time is very short, Colonel. Yours will be even shorter if you don't cooperate." I had him flattened against the wall, neck back, chin reaching away from the stiletto's point. "Why did Mendanike want to see Abu Osman?"
Through gritted teeth, shaking his head, he choked, "Before Allah, I don't know!"
Hugo drew blood. Doosa tried to back through the wall. "I swear it on the Koran! On my mother's tomb!"
I relaxed the pressure a bit. "Why did Mendanike want to see Ambassador Petersen?"
He shook his head. "I am only the Chief of Security! I would not know such a thing!"
This time Hugo did more than tickle. Doosa's head banged on the wall as he squealed. "Once more. I said, why? It's the only once you'll ever get."
He came apart and began to babble, sobbing, "Because! Because! He feared a coup! Because he feared General Tasahmed was going to kill him!"
"And you had our Ambassador murdered."
"It was an accident!"
"Like sabotaging the plane was an accident. Tasahmed was afraid Mendanike was going to try and make a deal with Osman."
"No! No!" He wagged his head from side to side. "That is why I came here to question Geyer. We picked up talk that he knew how the crash had happened and…"
"And your time has run out." I stepped back and he looked down the barrel of Wilhelmina, his eyes wide and b
lack as her muzzle. He went down on his knees as though he had heard the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. Somehow he hadn't impressed me as being so soft under fire, but then you never know how much is facade in a type like this.
If what he'd said was true or even half true, it wasn't just his time that had run out but mine as well. There was no stolen nuke in this sandpile, only a bunch of third-rate third world coup players. The game was clear enough. Tasahmed had made a deal with the Soviets. Lamana was the prize and Mendanike the goat. Mendanike had caught on, and it didn't really make a damn bit of difference who had fragged his plane or how… and yet — and yet — "I could pack it all up and notify Hawk to start looking elsewhere, or I could use up valuable time and play it out to the bitter end.
"Just stay on your knees," I said as Hans and Erica came back in the room. She had on slacks and a different turtleneck. She was pale but her eyes were clear and under control.
"How are you?"
She had a wan smile. "I'm okay… thanks to you."
"My pleasure. Why don't you go in the other room while we take care of things here?"
The bodies on the floor, alive and dead, looked like the final scene from Hamlet. As a nurse in this part of the world she'd no doubt seen her share of gore and she couldn't have very charitable feelings about the remains. "I'll put on the breakfast you were coming to," she said as she wove her way across the room.
"What are you going to do with him?" Hans said, looking at the prostrated chief of security.
"I haven't decided whether to shoot him in the head or cut his throat."
Hans cocked his head at me, not sure whether I meant it. The only reason I didn't was the possibility that Doosa alive could be of more use than Doosa in paradise. "I came back here to ask you a question," I said.
"Pal," Hans shook his head, "you've got a standing invitation to come here any hour day or night to ask me anythin' you want!"
