"Rest," she commanded. "It would demean us both if you left now."
"Death before dishonor," he muttered, and he meant it.
The climax of the evening had proved to be anything but. All else had gone well: the dinner of lightly curried shrimp followed by a baked red snapper with braised celery, and a chocolate mousse; a quiet walk around the grounds of the inn, a pause to admire a gibbous moon, a cognac at the bar, half an hour of gentle dancing; and then the long, confident walk, arm in arm, down the darkened corridors to Elena's suite; the key in the door, the tender disrobing, the tumble into bed . . . and then disaster. After a year of enforced continence, a year of sensual yearnings so sharp that at times he had thought he would die of them, Vasily now found himself staring at his limp and uncooperative phallus.
"These things happen," said Elena, consoling.
"Not to me, they don't," he growled.
"Never?"
"Never."
She shrugged at such obvious hyperbole and in the motion of the shrug managed to press even closer, her breasts a cushion for his arm and one of her legs thrown over his loins. She waited for a moment and then began to move herself against him, rubbing his body with hers while her fingers worked dexterously.
"Stop that," he said. "It isn't going to work."
She shrugged again and stopped.
"Besides, I thought we were going to rest for a while."
"Very well, we rest." She hesitated, then asked shrewdly, "Tell me, querido, has it been a long time since you were with a woman?"
Teeth clenched, he closed his eyes and said, "Yes."
"A very long time?"
"Yes, damn it, a very long time."
"Ah, I thought that might be it. The expectation was too much."
"Perhaps," he conceded.
"And of course, there was the girl."
"Who?"
"Isabella. My daughter. She distracted you."
His eyes popped open. "Nonsense."
"Not nonsense at all. She put an image in your mind, and for the moment that is all you can see."
"Elena, I assure you . . ."
"Please." She put a finger on his lips, then took it away and kissed him there lightly. "It is not necessary to assure me of anything. I am in no way insulted." She was silent for a moment, as if in deep thought; then said, "Come. There is a simple way to fix this."
She sat up and got out of bed, coming around to stand over him. She reached down to take his hands, saying, "Come with me now."
He looked up at her, mystified. She was an imposing sight from that angle, the strong hips, narrow waist, and high-riding breasts like those of a clipper ship's figurehead;
and he was the fish in the sea. He shook his head and said, "What is all this?"
But he let her take his hand and pull him from the bed, lead him across the bedroom and into the sitting room, conscious of his nudity and hers as they padded across the carpeted floor. At the door to the other bedroom she turned to him and smiled. She put a finger to her lip for silence.
He whispered hoarsely, "Elena, this is crazy."
She only shook her head. Still holding his hand, she opened the door and led him inside. Isabella's bedroom was smaller than her mother's and more simply furnished. No slavering wolfhounds, he was pleased to see, only flowery prints. A single lamp acted as a night-light, casting a pale pool over the bed. Isabella slept deeply, her body sprawled at all angles, and only a sheet covered her. Elena sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers lovingly through the thick hair, which was spread over the pillow like a cape. The girl did not stir.
"Observe," said Elena.
She put her hand to the top of the sheet and very gently drew it down, exposing her daughter's body. Vasily stared, a thickness in his throat. This was a loveliness that had only been hinted at earlier in the lounge. It was not that the girl was now totally nude - the few wispy strings had been nothing more than a legal masquerade - but the sprawl of her body in the abandonment of sleep made an aphrodisiac out of vulnerability. As if to emphasize that vulnerability, Elena cupped one of the girl's breasts in her hand and caressed it with her fingertips. With a moistened finger she rubbed the nipple erect, and Isabella stirred in her sleep.
Elena's eyes were dancing as she looked at him. "Lovely?"
"Lovely." He barely got the word out. His throat felt full of plums.
"This was what you saw in your head . . . this is what you wanted."
"No, I wanted you."
"Oh yes, but you wanted this, too, and the vision got in your way."
He watched, fascinated as her hand wandered lower on the girl's body, circled softly on her belly, and then slid down to dive into the delta. The shadows there concealed the movements of her fingers, but he did not need to see them to know what they were doing. Isabella moaned in her sleep, and her lips formed a circle of protest, then softened. Elena increased the pressure, and the girl moaned again.
"Yes, that feels good, guapa, doesn't it?" Elena murmured. "Yes, I know it does. Right there, just like that."
"Enough," said Vasily, "you'll wake her."
Elena looked at him over her shoulder. "And so?"
"I don't want this."
"Of course you do. Just look at yourself."
He did not need to look. Still, he persisted. "I'm ready for you. Leave her alone and come back inside."
She looked at him reproachfully. "And leave the poor child all excited? What terrible creatures men can be." Her fingers never stopped moving. She put her lips close to her daughter's ear and whispered, "Hey, sleepyhead, wake up."
"Mmmmmmm."
"Come on, darling, look at the present I've brought you."
Isabella opened her eyes and looked up at her mother. Elena kissed her tenderly on the forehead. In a tiny voice, choked with sleep, the girl asked, "What present?"
"Look for yourself."
Isabella shifted her gaze and saw Vasily standing at the foot of the bed. Her eyes widened. "For me?"
"All for you."
"Thank you, Mama." She could have been thanking her mother for a new dress or a ten-speed bicycle. "Is he nice?"
"He smells wild and strong, the way a man should. Venga, guapa, go to him."
Elena slipped her hand out from between the girl's legs. Isabella arched her back and stretched, her eyes still fixed on Vasily. She lifted up her arms to him in invitation. He stared down at her, blood pounding, unable to move. Elena was suddenly at his side, her breath hot in his ear.
"Take her," she said hoarsely. "Go ahead, man, I've done all the work for you."
"You know, I've always considered myself a sophisticate," he muttered, "but now I'm beginning to wonder."
Elena chuckled. "There's always something new to learn Go."
"What about you?"
"Don't worry about me. I'll be here when you want me. And believe me, you'll want me."
During the next two hours Vasily repaid himself for a year's worth of celibacy. The sex was mindless and seemingly endless, pure animal rutting as he went from the girl to the mother and back again, over and over, with the earlier impotence replaced by an unbreakable ability that he had never known before. The sex was also nearly silent. There were no endearing murmurs, no compliments to be savored later, no high-pitched screams of passion . . . only the never-ending creaking of the bed, the liquid sounds of lust, and an occasional grunt of gratification. Time spun round, and flesh spun with it; time stood still, but the flesh never stopped. After a while, drained and sated, and completely contented, he slept.
He awoke from a dreamless sleep as contented as when he had closed his eyes. Memory came flooding back, all of it clear, all of it warm, none of it displeasing. He felt flesh beside him, grinned, and opened his eyes to find Isabella tucked in next to him in sleep, as neat as two spoons. He awoke without a sense of time, and his eyes searched for a clock. They found one on a bedside table. It was not yet 6:00 a.m., and he winced at the sight of Mickey Mouse on the face of the cl
ock, happily signaling the hour. His eyes traveled further. The light was burning as before, the room was still, and the door was closed. He looked for Elena, but she was gone. He disengaged himself from the sleeping girl and padded into the sitting room. She was not there. He looked into her bedroom, but that was empty as well. He noted with satisfaction that his clothing, which he had discarded frantically the night before, had been neatly hung on hangers. He felt in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, debating what to do next. There was the familiar morning- after temptation to extract himself from the situation as quickly as possible, but there was equal temptation in the thought of the mound of nubile flesh asleep in the other room. Debating the point with himself, weighing the temptations, he found the cigarettes in his jacket and was about to light one when he heard the voices coming from the patio outside the bedroom window. Two of the voices belonged to Chuc and Van; the other was Elena's. They were speaking softly, but clearly, and he could understand every word they were saying. Elena's Vietnamese was as pure as her Spanish, rapid and colloquial.
He stood there and listened without moving, his body inclined toward the window and the sound of the voices, his face intent, the silver wings of his hair disheveled. As he listened he began to smile, and after a while he nodded his head twice, abruptly, as if in agreement with some private understanding. When he had heard enough, he went back to the other bedroom and lay down beside the sleeping Isabella. He kept his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
A few minutes later Elena came in. She wore a robe, and her hair was brushed and knotted into a neat bun. When she saw that his eyes were open, she smiled and came to sit on the edge of the bed beside him.
"Pues, que tal, caballero?" she asked. "Feeling better now?"
"I'm feeling bloody hungry, that's how I feel."
"Very understandable." There was mischief in her smile. "You were very active last night. It builds the appetite."
"Do you think we could order up breakfast this early?"
"I'm sure of it. What would you like?"
"Scrambled eggs and sausages," he said after a moment's thought. "Those tasty little sausages that come in cans."
"Canned sausage?" Elena did not think much of the idea.
"Humor me, guapa, I adore them. And ask the nice people to chill a bottle of Piper as well."
Elena clapped her hands in delight. "How lovely."
"The occasion demands it."
"But none for Isabella." She gazed fondly at the sleeping girl. "She is much too young for champagne at breakfast."
"Much too young," he agreed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At the sound of the first shot, Eddie rolled hard to his left, hoping to make the cover of the stone bench beside the pool before another shot came. He flipped over on his back, rolled twice, and then he heard another pop. The second bullet was carefully placed on his other side. The warning was clear; he stopped rolling. He lay facedown on the grass, his arms spread helplessly. The hot sun beat down on him, but the pit of his stomach was ice cold.
"You look ridiculous that way," said a disembodied voice. "Sit up . . . but do it slowly and carefully."
In the space of seconds came fear, then anger, and finally confusion. The fear came and went quickly. The anger lasted longer, directed at himself for being virtually defenseless. The confusion lasted longest of all, because the owner of that voice was supposed to be dead. He raised his head, then pulled himself up to a sitting position. Twenty feet away, a pistol in his hand, Vasily Borgneff sat atop the low wall that separated the patio and the pool from the fields behind the house.
"You're dead," Eddie said flatly.
"You exaggerate." Vasily's voice was controlled and polite. "A bit older, a good deal wearier, a touch wiser, but very much alive."
"I killed you."
"You certainly tried." Vasily jumped lightly from the wall, but the pistol in his hand never wavered. It was a Browning 9-millimeter, all the gun that he needed. He was dressed in black trousers and a light shirt, and his black eyepatch was set at a jaunty angle beneath the frame on his silver wings of hair. He turned his head slightly so that his one eye could also take in the three people in the pool. They floated there helplessly, staring at him.
"You folks stay right where you are." he said to them. "I don't care if you swim, tread water, or drown. Just stay in that pool." He shifted his gaze to Eddie. "Mr. Mancuso and I have some talking to do."
Eddie realized that he was calm, and that pleased him. He had never become accustomed to violent death; it had never become a commonplace to him. For twenty years the creation and manufacture of lethal gadgets had been the center of his concern, but death had never become a commodity to him, like pork bellies or grain futures to be traded one for the other. After all those years he had come to know that every man's life is unique, and that the passing of even the most unreconstructed is mourned by someone. Because of this, even though he had been on speaking terms with death for most of his adult life, he had never sat down and supped with the grim old bastard. His familiarity with violence had brought him only one conviction: that he himself would someday die by the tools of his own trade. There was no morbidity in this conviction, only an acceptance of circumstance, just as a sailor recognizes the high possibility of a wet death, and a fighter pilot a flaming one.
He took another look at that unstained blue sky, breathed deeply, and said, "The people in the pool, they've got nothing to do with this. Let them walk."
"On the contrary, they have a great deal to do with it."
"I see," Eddie said slowly. "That means you're working."
"Clever fellow," Vasily said. "Quick as ever."
"Swan?"
"Swan."
"Since when did you hire out as a gun? That's not your style."
"All things change." Vasily's voice was smooth and amused. "Besides, I owe Mr. Swan a great deal. He saved my life when you left me for dead. He fed me, clothed me. kept me safe, and let me go on living."
"A regular Salvation Army."
"Not quite. I have an obligation to him. It was his idea that I combine a little business with pleasure. The Emerson family is the business."
"I see. And I'm the pleasure."
Vasily shrugged gracefully. "Try to see my side of it. I have it coming, don't I?"
Eddie did not answer. While he was mouthing easy words his mind struggled to figure the angle. The gun was a threat, but only that. There was no profit in it for Swan if a bunch of riddled bodies were found floating belly-up. Then what was the gadget? Not a gas, not outdoors. No sign of any explosive device. Nothing ingestible, not unless he poisoned the pool, and that was not likely. The pool? Something to do with the pool?
He tried not to look at the pool as his mind clicked through the possibilities, but he could not blank out the sight of Ginger's terror-stricken face as she clung to the nearest ladder. Just within his vision he could see Rusty standing in the shallow end of the pool, water to her knees, every line of her body tensed. Emerson . . . where was he? Then he caught sight of the head moving slowly through the water. He was using only his legs, showing nothing as he carefully worked himself toward the side of the pool.
He'll never make it, Eddie thought. One splash and he's finished. The gadget, what is it? What the hell could it be?
Vasily laughed. It was not a cheering sound. "Figured it out yet?"
Eddie just stared at him, giving away nothing.
"The tower." Vasily gestured with his free hand. "Look up."
Eddie raised his eyes slowly, following the soaring lines of the structure to the very top. He saw the two dots there, dots that he knew were men, perched precariously at the point where the cables formed the top of a T. His eyes narrowed as he estimated distances, running figures through his mind, doing the same trigonometry that Vasily had done days before. Then he nodded abruptly in understanding.
"Neat?" asked Vasily, obviously proud.
"Neat," Eddie agreed. The professional part of his mi
nd had to admire the concept. His eyes registered Emerson's movement; he was closer now to the edge. Working for time, he asked, "Who are your friends up there?"
"Pawns, nothing more," said Vasily, shrugging, and without turning his head he added casually, "I may have only one eye, Mr. Emerson, but if by chance you make it to the side of the pool I will definitely put a bullet through your head before you can clear the water. Please stay where you are."
Emerson stopped moving. Rather than tread water, he put up his legs and floated on his back. In that position his eyes stared up at the men on the tower. He was still not sure what was happening, but he knew that those men held his life in their hands. He kept his eyes on them, wondering.
High above, and off to the side of the pool, Chuc and Van braced themselves against the cross struts of the tower, their cable cutters open and ready. They clung to the structure with a casual agility, unconcerned by the height and able to survey the imposing countryside and the scene beside the pool without vertigo. They did not hear the sound of the shot from their perch, but they saw Vasily go over the wall, a stick figure leaping, and they saw the action at the pool freeze into a tableau. They watched and they waited.
After a while, Chuc said, "Can you see his arm? Is it up?"
"Not yet."
"What is he waiting for? He takes too much time."
Van grinned. "Revenge is a song to be sung slowly. He wants to enjoy every note."
"He should make the sign and get it done with."
But Van was enjoying himself. The air was cool and refreshing at the top of the tower, and a slight breeze caused the cables to hum pleasantly. He was looking forward to cutting the cables, imagining how they would fall in a grand swoop to the pool below. In his mind he could already see the people in the water leaping in uncontrolled spasms as the current passed through them. His only regret was that in doing it this way there would be no opportunity to use the women beforehand.
"An operation like this," said Chuc, "should be done quickly, like a knife in the dark. This is not time for Borgneff to be dramatic." He hooked his left arm around a strut and managed a look at his watch. "I'll give him five minutes more, that's all."
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