by Len Levinson
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, placing his hand on her thigh.
“Gee, do you think we should?”
He moved his hand up her thigh. “I most certainly do.”
“But what would my mother think?”
“Your mother won’t know.”
She took his hand away. “Now stop that!”
“Please let me touch it.”
“No!”
“Let me kiss it?”
“Kiss it?!!”
“Yes, kiss it.” He rolled his eyes at her.
“Oh, you dirty man,” she sighed, fluttering her eyelashes.
“Please let me kiss it.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“Nobody’s ever done that to me before,” she lied outrageously.
“Then it’s time somebody did, and who would be better to do it for you than a skillful Russian such as myself, a man of the world, an honest worker, and a passionate artist in the rites of love.”
“Ooooh,” she squealed, wiggling in her seat.
“Let me. Please. For you sake as well as mine.” His lips trembled as he grasped her hand.
“Oh, Mr. Dmitri. The things you say!”
“Please,” he moaned.
She wondered if his approach actually worked with women. It was the most absurd approach she’d ever seen. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know if I should.”
“Please. I’ll die if you don’t let me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want you to die, Mr. Dmitri.”
“Please.”
“All right. If you promise to be good.”
“I’ll be very good,” he said sincerely. “I’ll be the best you ever had.”
“But I haven’t had that many,” she lied.
“After me, you won’t want any more.”
“Oh, Mr. Dmitri. The things you say!”
Dmitri called the waiter over, paid the check, and left a lousy tip. He escorted Wilma out of the restaurant and at the curb the doorman hailed them a cab. They got in and rode the few blocks to the hotel where Wilma’s room was.
“Oh, my little chuchnik,” Dmitri whispered, pawing Wilma in the back seat, pinching her ass and stroking her boobs.
“Now control yourself,” she said, fighting him off. “Wait until we get upstairs.”
“I can’t wait.”
“You must.”
“I can’t. Just let me touch it. Once.”
“Touch what?”
“Your little gridgy.”
“My what?”
“You know. That sweet little thing between your legs.”
“Mr. Dmitri!”
“Please, my love.”
“Wait. Be patient. We’re almost there.”
“I can’t live without you.”
“Sure you can.”
“No, I can’t.”
“It’ll only be a few more minutes.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
“Yes you can.”
“My blood burns for you.”
“Oh, my gosh.”
“My heart cries for you.”
“Give me a break, will you?”
“Marry me and make me the happiest man in the world.”
“But you’re already married.”
He sat bolt upright and became serious. “How did you know that?”
Wilma knew that she’d made a blunder, and now she had to get out of it. “You mean you’re not married?” she asked naively.
“What makes you think I’m married.”
“I believe you told me.”
“I didn’t tell you.”
“Then I must have imagined it, because I can’t see how a big handsome man like you couldn’t be married.”
He rolled his eyes. “You think I’m big and handsome, eh?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You are in love with me, yes?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a little.”
“How sweet you are,” he crooned. “How charming. How wonderful.”
The driver stopped his cab in front of the hotel. “Here we are,” he said in Arabic.
Dmitri, who spoke Arabic even worse than he spoke English, paid and tipped him. Then he led Wilma out of the cab and into the hotel. It had a standard lobby that you’d find in an expensive tourist hotel, and resembled the lobby of any big motel in America. Wilma acted shy and demure as Dmitri walked her to the elevator.
“I hope nobody sees us,” she whispered to him.
“Why not? We must declare our love to the world!”
“Sssshhhh.”
“You Americans are so silly. Soon you will see just how silly you are.”
“I am?”
“No, the American people in general.”
“Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Dmitri?” she asked, knowing full well he was making an oblique reference to the terrible Doom Machine.
“Oh, nothing.”
“How mysterious you are, Mr. Dmitri.”
“Just call me Dmitri. Leave out the mister.”
“Okay, Dmitri.” She giggled.
The elevator came and they got on with a batch of tourists. They rode up and got off at the tenth floor. Walking down the corridor, Dmitri stroked her behind with one hand, her boobs with the other, and lapped her ears like a dog. At her door, she fumbled with her keys and coughed to alert the boys inside. She hoped they were there and ready for the arrival of Dmitri, because she’d hate to be stuck alone with him in that room.
She opened the door to the darkened hotel room. “After you,” she said with a smile.
“No, after you,” he replied with a bow.
She giggled and walked into the hotel room. Dmitri followed her, gazing with unblemished lust at her fanny. Suddenly the door slammed closed. Butler and Farouk jumped on Dmitri, and before the poor lovesick Russian knew what was happening, Butler injected the new truth serum into his arm. Dmitri staggered under the weight of the two men as the serum coursed through his body. He fell to his knees and shook his head. I’ve been betrayed, he thought as he fell over onto his face.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Butler and Farouk dragged Dmitri to the bed and tied him to it. Wilma turned on the lights and then went to the bathroom to freshen up. When she returned, Dmitri was knotted to the bed and lying with his eyes closed. Butler and Farouk stood over him on opposite sides of the bed.
“How is he?” Wilma asked.
“Still out,” Farouk replied.
“You didn’t give him too much of that stuff, did you?”
Butler shook his head. “No.” He held the hypodermic needle up to the light. “I gave him the exact perfect amount.” He looked at Wilma. “How’d it go?”
“He is a disgusting human being. A complete degenerate. A blob.”
Butler snorted sarcastically. “If he looked like Robert Redford you’d think he was the most charming, delightful man that ever lived.”
“That’s not true! What a nasty, insulting thing to say! And at a crucial time like this, too.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“How dare you talk to me that way! You’re just mad because I wouldn’t come across for you once.”
“That’s not true. I wasn’t interested in you at all.”
“Liar.”
“Nitwit.”
“Pig.”
“Birdbrain.”
Farouk frowned. “You two are driving me crazy. Always insulting each other. I still think you’re both in love with each other.”
“Love!” Butler and Wilma shouted, looking at each other and snarling.
“Yes, love,” Farouk said. “I think the best thing you could possibly do would be to go to bed with each other and get it over with, once and for all.”
“Go to bed with him?” Wilma asked, making a face. “Are you crazy?”
“Yuk,” Butler said. “It’d be a fate worse than death.”
Dmitri groaned, and everybody looked at him. But
ler got his pencil and notepad. Dmitri opened his eyes.
“Where am I?” he asked in a faraway voice.
“In my hotel room, lover boy,” Wilma replied.
“What happened?”
“Weil,” Butler said, “things aren’t turning out quite the way you expected, old boy. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like you to answer a few questions for me. You don’t mind, do you?”
Dmitri’s face suggested a struggle was going on within him, but he said, “No, I don’t mind.”
“Good,” Butler said. “You are chief engineer on the Doom Machine project, are you not?”
“Doom Machine project?”
“The electronic microwave machine that outsmarts smart bombs.”
“Oh, yes, now I know what you’re talking about. Yes, I am the chief engineer.”
“How soon will the machines be ready?”
“About three more days.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Where are the machines being constructed?”
“In the basement of the north wing of the Abdul Faheem Munitions Plant.”
“Who is guarding the place where the machines are being constructed?”
“KGB men.”
“How many?”
“Six on each shift.”
“They work at night?”
“Yes. It’s the only part of the plant that is in operation at night.”
“Are Russians building the machines?”
“Yes.”
“Why not Syrians?”
“It would take too long to teach them the complicated microwave technology.”
Butler bent over Dmitri. “Now answer this question very carefully, lover boy. Where are the plans for the machines?”
“The plans?”
“Yes. The blueprints. You know what I mean.”
“They are in the project manager’s office.”
“And where is that?”
“In the basement of the north wing of the Abdul Faheem Munitions Plant.”
“Whereabouts in the basement of the north wing of the Abdul Faheem Munitions Plant?”
“It is in the corner of the room. You can’t miss it because it is the only office there.”
“Is there anyone in that office at night?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“The person in charge. It could be the foreman, the ranking engineer, or the project manager himself.”
“Who is he?”
“Professor Sergei Roussimoff of the Moscow Institute of Science. He is the one who invented Weapon X, which is what we call the machine.”
“And where is he right now?”
“How should I know?”
“Where does he live?”
“In the Russian Embassy.”
“The Russian Embassy?”
“Correct.”
“Why inside the Russian Embassy?” Why doesn’t he take an apartment in town?”
“Because he knows how to build Weapon X, and the KGB is afraid he’ll be kidnapped.”
“Don’t you know how to build it, Dmitri?”
“No. I and the others just work from the plans.”
“Hmmm. I see.” Butler scratched his jaw. “I’m going to have a conference with my friends for a few moments. You just lie here and be quiet, all right, Dmitri?”
“Yes, sir.”
Butler motioned with his head to the bathroom; Wilma and Farouk followed him in. He shut the door and they looked at each other in the cramped, humid room. Wilma’s cosmetics were atop the sink and a pair of her damp pantyhose hung from the shower nozzle.
“It appears that we don’t have as much time as we thought,” Butler said. “If the Doom Machine is supposed to go operational in three days, we’ll have to act fast. I say we should try to accomplish the mission tonight.”
“Tonight?” asked Farouk, looking at his watch. It was eight o’clock.
“Yes,” Butler replied. “We’ll wait a few hours and then try to break in. The sooner we do this, the better.”
“It’s okay with me,” Wilma said.
“Me too,” agreed Farouk.
“Good,” said Butler. “Let’s get it on.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was midnight in the district where the Abdul Faheem Munitions Plant was located. Three motorcycles sputtered down the deserted streets, and on them were Butler, Farouk, and Wilma. They all wore jeans, denim jackets, and combat boots, for they were completely operational now. The pretense was over. It was do or die. Each carried a gun, a knife, and a tiny camera for taking photographs of the blueprints. They also carried a total of twelve pounds of plastic explosive material, enough to destroy a very large building.
They reached the street facing the plant, and a few of the cafes were open, with a few customers inside. But mostly it was like a ghost town. They saw the front gate of the plant, but it was closed and there were guards in the little building beside it. Driving past the gate, they came to the end of the street and turned left.
This street had the factory on one side and warehouses on the other. They continued to its end and turned left again, driving behind the back of the factory. It had the chain fence around it, and across the street was a vast empty field, for this was the very edge of town. Butler pointed into the field and they drove onto it. He raised his hand and they stopped.
“We’ll hide the motorcycles here,” he said.
They turned off their motorcycles’ engines, dismounted, and lay the motorcycles behind some bushes. Then they walked out of the field and crossed the street to the sidewalk beside the chain fence.
“You two watch while I cut through the fence?” Butler said.
Farouk looked to the right and Wilma to the left as Butler kneeled, took out his laser pen, and burned through the links of the fence on the bottom and two sides. He pushed the fence, and it was like a swinging door hinged on top. Looking both ways, he saw that the coast was clear.
“Let’s go in,” Butler said.
He kneeled, pushed the fence, and went through. Farouk and Wilma followed him. They ran fifty yards to the wail of the factory and stopped in the shadows, looking and listening.
Everything was quiet.
“Follow me,” Butler said.
They moved along the side of the building, staying in the shadows. Finally they came to the kind of window that had opaque glass lined with wire. Its bottom ledge was six feet off the ground.
“Wilma,” Butler said, “we’ll lift you up, and you burn through the lock with your laser.”
“Right,” she replied.
Butler grabbed one of her legs and Farouk grabbed the other. They lifted her in the air and she burned through the wood of the window and melted the metal lock that held it. She pushed the sash, and the window opened. The men raised her higher and she went over the ledge into the factory. Butler helped lift Farouk to the ledge, and then he climbed up himself.
The three of them landed on the floor inside the factory. Butler closed the window so no one would notice that they’d come in. They were in a huge dark machine shop, and they could smell grease and scorched metal.
“This way,” Butler said.
They crept along the wall of the machine shop, heading in the direction of the north wing of the building. They came to a door—Butler opened it a crack and saw another machine shop.
“Follow me,” he said.
They went into the next machine shop, still hugging the wall, looking for a flight of stairs. At the end of the room they found it, and climbed down to the basement.
They found themselves in a huge room filled with gigantic iron cauldrons where chemicals were mixed. Continuing to move in a northerly direction, they made their way through the room.
“Look!” Wilma said, pointing ahead through the legs of the cauldrons.
Butler and Farouk looked, and on the floor ahead in front of the door were the bodies of men. What the hell’s going on here? Butler w
ondered, motioning for Farouk and Wilma to follow him. They crept toward the bodies, and Butler took out his Colt .45. This was the northern wing of the basement, and that must be the room where the Doom Machine is being made, Butler thought. Those bodies on the floor must be the guards, but what had happened to them?
Finally they reached the bodies. There were six of them, and they were unconscious but not dead. Ahead was the door to the Doom Machine project, and it had a window on it. Butler stood stealthily and looked through the window. He saw a room filled with machines and electronic gadgets, and the floor was covered with the bodies of men. At the end of the room was a small office that had a window in its door, and a light shone through the window. Whoever knocked all these people out, Butler thought, is in that room right there.
“Put your hands up!” said a voice in Arabic behind them.
Butler, Farouk, and Wilma raised their hands and looked back. They saw two men in green battle fatigues carrying submachine guns.
“Go in the room,” one of the men said.
Butler, Farouk, and Wilma entered the shop where the Doom Machines were being constructed. Butler’s heart sank in his chest. They’d been caught, but who the hell caught them? Passing through the room, he noticed that the machinery was ripped apart and burned with acid. Whoever these people were, they had sabotaged the Doom Machine project! And then in a sudden flash, Butler realized who they were. He looked behind him to the guns they were carrying, and sure enough, each one of them was carrying an Uzi, the weapon of the Israeli commandos.
“They’re Israelis,” Butler said.
“Israelis?” asked Farouk.
“Of course!” said Wilma as the truth dawned on her.
Butler turned around and smiled. “Shalom. We are Americans and we come in peace.”
“Americans?” asked one of the Israelis.
“Yes.”
“CIA?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Private enterprise.”
“Huh?”
The Israeli commandos marched them into the small room, where other Israelis were photographing stacks of blueprints that lay on a table. Tied up and sitting on chairs were some men whom Butler thought were Russian technicians. The Israelis photographing the blueprints looked up at the newcomers. One of them had a long beard and looked like a rabbi. “Who are they?” he asked in Hebrew.
