by Jina Bacarr
Had the second bullet found its mark?
Before he could go after her, the Nazi was on him like a lizard crawling up a mud bank. He struggled with the German, kicking him again and, using the sparring techniques he’d learned on his numerous trips ashore to Hong Kong ferrying the mail, forced him to drop the gun. Knowing his attacks had to be fast and accurate, he threw a right cross to the Nazi’s chin. The Aryan ducked, surprising him, then came back at him with a double punch to his gut. They exchanged blows, skin splitting open, sweat mixing in a macabre blurring of male flesh and hard muscle into one blur until the Nazi retrieved the gun. Chuck kicked it out of the man’s hand and he went down on the sand. He jumped on top of him, but the Nazi threw dirt into his face. Eyes burning like hell, he reached out blindly, withstanding the man’s punches, until his hands wrapped around the German’s neck and he pushed down on his windpipe hard, not letting up, until he went still beneath him.
He sat back on his haunches and caught his breath. Eyes wide open, shock of blond hair hanging down low over his face, the Nazi had the look of a demonic creature cast in stone. He checked his pulse. He was dead.
Wiping the sweat out of his eyes, Chuck looked toward the lake. No movement, no splashing. Nothing. What happened to the Englishwoman? A sharp pain tore at his gut, eating him up with dread. He jumped to his feet and dived into the crystal-clear water, afraid of what he’d find.
An hour later—or was it two?—the dead Nazi lay in the mud on the lake bottom with two large rocks tied around his ankles. Chuck came up again to get some air, his lungs bursting. No sign of the Englishwoman. No blood, no body. Nothing. Again and again he searched the area, but it was as if she’d dived into the lake and disappeared. He almost believed she was a mermaid and had swum out to sea.
God, he was losing his mind. Nothing made sense. The platinum blonde. The SS officer. What had he stumbled into? An intricate Nazi plot to pick him up? No, that was impossible. No one could have known he’d duck into the Hotel Adlon to get some rest after he’d been shot down during a bombing mission over Berlin. He was an American flier in the RAF and he’d been on the run for two, three days, trying to escape into the human blur that swarmed through the hotels in a never-ending bustle, moving at night when the city was thrust into darkness to evade the British bombers. Living on cold pasta tossed out from Italian restaurants, since food was rationed. His crew had been captured, but he escaped into the woods, burying his uniform jacket then stealing clothes drying on a line from an unsuspecting Hausfrau.
He wiped the water from his eyes, but he couldn’t wipe away the doubts, the puzzle that eluded him. It didn’t make sense. He dived in again, searching the lake that must have been over two hundred feet deep in the middle. And cold. Still nothing. He had no choice but to give up the search and find his way back over the German lines to the Allies. Forget what she said about a diary. Why should he risk his own life to retrieve a piece of female vanity?
Dressing quickly in the dead Nazi’s silver-and-black uniform—he intended to dump it as soon as possible—he got behind the wheel of the Mercedes 260D diesel car and drove off. He found himself weaving from one lane to another, his mind troubled. A hint of her spicy fragrance wafted off the black ribbed seat and hung in the air around him, torturing him with its power. What happened to the Englishwoman? Lady Eve Marlowe of Mayfair was how he’d known her in Cairo. Where was she? Though her beauty haunted him, her death haunted him more. Nothing was left to show she’d ever been there, shivered in his arms, teased him with her beguiling smile, pleasured him when he stroked her with his cock until she cried out at the peak of her desire.
Nothing. Just the redolent scent of her perfume.
Damn her.
It took him less than five minutes to change his mind and turn the car around and head back toward Berlin. It wasn’t that he faced a nearly impossible journey in enemy territory to get to France and the underground that made him change his mind. He’d survived worse. It wasn’t that he was certain Lady Marlowe had cash in her suite he could use in his escape, since when he searched through her clothes and purse before tossing them behind some brush, he’d found nothing. No, it was something he didn’t dare put into words. A hunch that this gorgeous woman was mixed up in more than sex and decadence, that she’d begged him to help her and if he didn’t, her life would have been in vain. Whatever they’d had in Cairo, it ended here, today. He couldn’t change that. He could change course, play out this insane caper and see where it led him. He hated the feeling eating at his insides, that her death was his fault. He owed her that much.
An hour later, he parked the big, black sedan blocks away from the Adlon then ducked in under the hotel awning and strode past the doorman and into the lobby, saluting and mumbling “Heil, Hitler!” to anyone who crossed his path. He avoided the black-suited desk clerk and the admiring eyes of the uniformed bellboy wearing white gloves and made his way upstairs, then grabbed a maid and threatened her with gestures and grunts until she allowed him access to the blonde’s suite. Who would deny an SS officer? He didn’t know more than a few words of German, but it worked. He was inside.
There, in the middle of the room, was a steamer trunk. It stood three feet long and two feet high with four rollers, edged in leather with wood strapping and brass rivets. He tapped his fingers over the cracking Damier pattern, noting the tiny tears in the canvas covering the trunk—
Rrring.
He waited.
The phone rang again and again and still he did nothing. He dare not answer it, but the presence of its irritating sound filled the air between himself and the unknown caller. Then the ringing stopped and the silence became his ticking clock. He glanced at the phone then looked at the door. Whoever had called could be on their way up here.
What was he waiting for? Staring at the trunk wasn’t going to bring back the Englishwoman. He tugged on the brass lock, but it wouldn’t give. Locked.
And no key in sight.
That wouldn’t stop him. He had plenty of practice picking the lock on his father’s gun cabinet when he was a kid, so he could practice shooting tin cans with his kid brother when the old man was away. He searched through the female items on the vanity table until he found what he needed: a nail file and a long hatpin. With the hatpin in one hand and the nail file in the other, he got to work on the lock. Using the hatpin, he picked the lock by raising the pins to their so-called breaking point as a key would, then used the nail file to rotate the cylinder to operate the cam at the rear of the lock’s cylinder to unlock the mechanism. It took a few tries, but it wasn’t long until he heard the welcome click and the lock popped open. Inside, he found a blue suit, navy pumps, chemises, garters and silk stockings. Beneath the clothes, he found a square box wrapped in black velvet about the size of a small jewelry box. He felt along the bottom of the trunk until it gave way and he uncovered a red silk-bound diary, its deep lush color still as fresh as the blush of a rose. He opened the book and the scent wafting from its pages overpowered him. Her scent. Spicy and pungent, like a kaleidoscope of powerful fragrances shuffled together that emitted a slightly different aroma every time he turned a page. Florid, feminine handwriting flowed from the linen sheets, jumping out at him as though the writer had jotted her thoughts down in a hurry. Voluptuous scenes, lusty descriptions, all filled with savagery.
Fascinated by what he’d seen, he flipped back to the first entry. It was all there in her handwriting. Loneliness, pleasure, the desire to submit, the indiscretions. All the passions of a woman possessed by the secret of what she called Cleopatra’s perfume. No wonder her image, her touch, her scent held him captive and wouldn’t let him go. He no longer saw her fluffed up in feathers and jewels and he a man filled with the raw need to conquer his own demons, but two people caught up in a dangerous game of intrigue and obsession. She revealed the past to him by way of the erotic tableaux she described, while the mysterious perfume emitting from the diary pages overwhelmed his senses with an intimate and intoxi
cating intensity.
And so he entered her world.
2
This diary belongs to: Lady Eve Marlowe
London, Mayfair
March 31, 1941
M y life is in danger, but that won’t stop me. I must go to Berlin. Yes, I know it’s dangerous, considering the country is run by a monster marching against the world order and devouring innocents like a dragon spewing fire. He’s destroying everything in his path with flames of hatred and prejudice and he may destroy me, but I have no choice. If I fail at my mission I will die, as will others, but I’ve made preparations for a way out should death come too close to me. One so unbelievable I must write it down, for if I do not, no one will ever know what happened to me and the extraordinary journey I’ve taken. No one but you, dear reader.
It all began in 1939 when I refused to slip on the somber elegance of a widow’s veil, an act I undertook with the same rebelliousness that had ruled my young life. Unwilling, unvirginal and undaunted by an empty bed I was determined would soon be filled, I set out to find adventure. I was lonely, though at twenty-nine I’d traveled the world and seen its wonders as well as its weaknesses. I’d met my late husband, Lord Marlowe, who was thirty years my senior, years earlier when I was stranded in Cairo after what the London Times society page called “an unfortunate incident with renowned archaeologist Lord Wordley’s expedition into the Valley of the Kings,” insinuating I’d been on a dig with the famed explorer and his group of posh thrill-seekers. Nothing could be further from the truth, but I will leave the reality of what happened to later telling. All you need to know is I have a history with Egypt far removed from my peerage as Lady Marlowe.
I had arrived in the Near East as a girl of twenty in a time when rebellious girls dressed in red satin trunks and short tops and sat at tables in seedy cafés, sipping highballs in squatty glasses with men seated around them, their hungry mouths drawn back in drunken smiles while someone struck the same chords over and over again on an upright piano. I’m not ashamed of what I did during those wild days of my youth, but nor do I wish to recall them here. So, dear reader, whoever you are, be assured I knew what to expect when the liner stopped for stevedoring in Port Said and I disembarked from the ship. Known as a city of sin, rice and women are its main commodities. Port Said harbors a white slave trade flourishing in its hidden places, bars and houses, where young girls languish and perish under the thumbs of men.
I also discovered another secret in this city at the entrance to the Suez Canal, how a woman can forget her loneliness and indulge in the most delicious sexual adventures, so decadent I bring myself close to orgasm thinking about it, my pen shaking as I lay it down and unbutton my white silk trousers and insert my fingers inside me and stroke myself…panting, hanging in anticipation of what I know will come if I continue rubbing the hard ridge inside me, my body gyrating in time with the movements of my fingers. I open my legs wider to allow my fingers easier access…
Excuse the abrupt interruption, dear reader, but my need overcame my reason. I’ll be embarking soon on the first leg of my journey to Berlin, but first I must continue with my story and why I returned to the Near East after my husband’s death.
I’d enjoyed many pleasant interludes with Lord Marlowe in the region during our marriage: from the polo matches at the Gezira Sporting Club in Cairo, to excursions to see the Sphinx and the Great Pyramid, to traveling down the Nile to Luxor and Aswan. It was also where I could escape the suffocating air distorting the reality that dominated London’s clubs. I couldn’t survive in that atmosphere of pearls and perfect vowels, where one’s place in society was bred into the bones, though from what I’d seen in many a Mayfair drawing room, they grew brittle from a lack of blood flowing through their veins.
I packed my trunk and left London.
I was familiar with the sea route, having traversed it many times over the years with my late husband. After traveling from London by train to embark on a ship at Genoa, the luxury P&O steamer went on to Port Said and would then pass through the Suez Canal to Bombay, Hong Kong and Shanghai. What should have been a tranquil journey of reflection, I must admit, turned out to be a pattern of recurring neuroses. Chatter aboard ship became more stifling than staying in London. My independence was at stake. I had no place to hide from my fellow British passengers, many of whom knew of my recent widow status and whispered among themselves about the scandal brewing when word got back to London that I was traveling alone. And wearing white wide-leg trousers and an open white blouse with ample cleavage showing.
From behind my round dark glasses, I watched the gentlemen eyeing my pointy breasts and the ladies watching them. I shaded my eyes from their stares, but I had nothing to hide. White denoted purity of heart and I had every right to wear it. During my years of marriage to Lord Marlowe, I’d remained chaste, taking no other man to my bed; but now I was alone, and companionship was not something I merely desired. I needed a man and I needed him badly.
I disembarked the ship at Port Said to idle away time shopping for tropical skirts, pants, cameras, inexpensive jewels and French perfumes. Lucky for me, the shops remained open all night to cater to travelers until the ship departed in the early-morning hours. It wasn’t long before boredom, the heat and the flies, as well as the dirty looks from my fellow passengers, drove me to explore the port city on my own.
I doubted these ladies with their noses stuck up my business would dare follow me into a seedy-looking bar that reeked of male sweat and alcohol and with cigarette smoke so thick it drifted like a seventh veil over the crowd. I sat down at a small table and ordered Egyptian beer, what Lord Marlowe called onion beer because of its strong taste.
Raising my glass, I was congratulating myself on losing the gossipy women, when a slightly built Egyptian wearing a red fez with a long black tassel half covering his face shuffled over to me and bowed, then asked to tell my fortune. I shooed him away, knowing full well this wallah would gladly dish out what British locals called pukka gen—advice to the lovelorn—to any lone female willing to listen.
But he wouldn’t give up, insisting he had a special rate for a pretty lady with hair the color of the moon. I put down my beer and smiled at him. With a line like that, how could I refuse?
I invited him to sit down, and before the air could settle underneath his sagging body, he removed the lid of a biscuit tin from inside his shabby jacket and poured fine sand into it, then shook it until the surface was even. Then, taking my hand, he instructed me to trace lines in the sand with my fingers. I did as he asked, its soft touch making my fingertips tingle with what I knew was curiosity, not magic. When I finished raking my fingers through the white specks, he gazed at the squiggles I’d made, thinking. Then he began to speak. Slowly, as if he was reciting a well-rehearsed prayer.
“Your heart is lonely since the death of your husband.” He sighed, for effect, I’m sure. “And you crave a man’s touch to soothe your pain.”
How did he know I was a widow? Did he see the hunger in my eyes for a man’s sweat to mix with mine, his hard muscles pressing against my willing flesh as he rubbed his chest against my bare breasts?
He looked at me, but I cast my eyes downward. Not giving up, he continued, “I see you are as fragile as a flower in the desert, reaching up to the sun for nourishment, but dying without the sweetness of the rain to quench your thirst.”
No doubt this fortune would fit several lonely women travelers in this port city and I told him so. He shook his head, insisting there was more. He grabbed my hand again and raked my fingers through the sand. I saw him shaking, his lower lip twitching. My hand shook as well and I swear the sand sparked against my fingertips.
“You will meet a man within a fortnight,” he insisted, “and his fire will peel the skin from your bones, making you lose all control—”
I pulled my hand away. “Sounds unpleasant.” I tried to keep my voice steady, not let him see how his prediction affected me, nurtured the elusive dream I craved, but even as
I said the words, my lower belly ached and my clit throbbed from want of a man I didn’t know.
The fortune-teller continued, “With him you will find immortality.”
I pondered this, though not for long. Immortality? What nonsense. What Near Eastern alchemy he was peddling I could only guess. I doubted I could find a man to fulfill the incompleteness haunting me since my husband’s death and assuage my hunger for the pleasures long denied to me. Still—
“Where will I meet this man?” I had to ask, wanting to believe I could escape my loneliness through this predestined encounter. I held my hands together in my lap to stop them from shaking. If I found such a man in Port Said and found sexual pleasure with him, that would mean I’d crossed the line into another world. I couldn’t go back. I sensed I was at a dangerous impasse by snubbing the staid world of British royals, forcing me to face what I thought I’d left behind: my taste for the sweetest of tortures. I’ll not regale you, dear reader, with details. They will come later.
“You will take him from the arms of another woman,” the man said.
I threw my hands up into the air. “I don’t believe your silly fortune-telling.”
“Believe. It will happen.” He jumped up and put out his hand. “Five piastres.” One shilling.
I paid him, though my face dripped sweat and my lips trembled as the smoky air seemed to close in around me and hold me in its grip. I couldn’t deny the physical reaction I had to his words. Whatever excuse I wanted to use, lonely, frustrated for lack of a sexual partner, I was ready to embrace whatever erotic impulses I discovered in this city of sin, ready to surrender to emotional chaos to feed my hunger without guilt.
I turned around to order another beer and when I turned back, the man was gone.
