Black Gold

by Paul Kenyon

  Annotation

  The Baroness drills for danger.

  Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini takes on SPOILER, a mysterious organization that threatens to turn the world's most precious commodity into an all-devouring instrument of death. Now the sensuous superspy must use every inch of her devastating body against a perverted mastermind who dreams of global conquest. Facing sadists and sea monsters, she hasn't a moment to lose — for already the lethal lubricant has begun to choke the planet in a horrible ooze of black death!

  * * *

  Paul Kenyon

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  Paul Kenyon

  Black Gold

  OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by

  Chapter 1

  The sword weighed a good twenty pounds, but the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini handled it as easily as if it had been a golf club. She swung it, two-handed, at the sinewy Japanese in the chain-mail loincloth, who countered by stepping back and catching it on the blade of his own samurai sword. There was a clang of steel that could have been heard in a boiler factory.

  "Ouch!" said the Japanese. He dropped his weapon, both arms gone numb.

  "Are you all right, Tommy?" the Baroness said.

  She lowered the great sword to the gymnasium mat and leaned on it. The Baroness was a tall, limber woman in the bloom of her thirties, clad in a black leotard with a scoop neckline. Sweat trickled down her broad, magnificent chest and ran in rivulets into the deep cleft between her breasts. She mopped at her forehead with a sleeve, and pushed back a damp strand of jet-black hair.

  Her face was impossibly beautiful — a flawless construction of arched brows and huge emerald eyes and sculptured cheekbones. It was animated now, and a little savage from the excitement of combat, but it was unmistakably the face that a dozen fashion magazines on three continents competed for.

  Tom Sumo flexed his hands to see if they'd work. "Give me a minute. I felt that jolt all the way to the eyeballs. What do you want to try next?"

  "Nashi wari," she said. "The pear-splitter."

  He looked shocked. "With these? Maybe we better switch to the bamboo practice swords for that one. If your timing's off a fraction, I'll split you down to the navel."

  "My timing won't be off," she said.

  "But…"

  "Tommy," she said patiently, "there's no point in playing make-believe when you're trying to sharpen up your reflexes."

  "All right," he said doubtfully. He lifted the huge two-handed weapon off the mat and made a couple of practice swings with it.

  "And, Tommy," she said sharply, "I don't want you to hold back. I'll expect you to try to kill me — for real."

  He nodded. If she was expecting to parry a death-dealing blow, it would be more dangerous to try to fake it. Faulty execution of the Nashi wari could sever a shoulder.

  They bowed to one another ceremonially. Sumo had been born in Oakland, California, but he took tradition seriously. The samurai swords, with their engraved blades and menuki hilt ornaments, had been in his family for generations.

  The Baroness turned her back to him and started to walk away. Sumo's gaunt face contorted with effort, and the huge sword suddenly glittered in the air, flashing directly down toward the Baroness' scalp.

  She whirled suddenly. There was a blur of bright metal and a sound like a gong, and Sumo's sword bounced off the Baroness' blade. He staggered backward, wrestling with both hands to keep his grip on the vibrating hilt. The Baroness swung in instant follow-up. Sumo's eyes bulged in horror as the ancient steel, keen as a razor blade and heavier than a sledgehammer, spun toward him. Impossibly, the ponderous blade stopped, trembling, a bare fraction of an inch from his chin. Only the Baroness' bunched arm muscles, regrouping themselves under the skintight nylon, betrayed the incredible effort it had taken.

  Sumo had gone pale. "I thought for sure I was going to lose my head," he whispered.

  She laughed. "Not a chance, Tommy, darling. I need your head."

  "So do I."

  They grinned at one another in easy, professional camaraderie. Sumo was one of her most useful employees: an electronics genius whose head was full of circuits. Literally. The mouthful of gold and platinum that he was flashing was a miniaturized transceiver that he could operate with his tongue. Sumo could plant a bug — or pry one out of the woodwork of your conference room — before you had time to sneeze, but sometimes he didn't know when to stop.

  "Excuse me, Baroness. Lord Cavendish is here."

  They both turned toward the girl in the white uniform who had entered the gymnasium. She was a big, stunning blonde with china-blue eyes and a glowing complexion. The starch in the uniform was fighting a losing battle with her figure.

  "Show him in, Inga," the Baroness said.

  Before Inga could go, the padded door swung open again, and a tall, impressive-looking man in superb tweeds came into the room. He had an attractively rakish face with bony cheeks and a hawk's nose. His straight, somewhat coarse, black hair was worn a little long — just careless enough to let you know that he had a very expensive barber. He had a yachtsman's tan, a real one. He was still in his thirties, but he had the unmistakable force of a man who is used to being listened to and obeyed.

  "I've shown myself in, Baroness m'love," he said. His eyes narrowed as he took in the gymnasium layout. "Hello, I didn't know you had anything as elaborate as this in your London digs!"

  A subtle change had come over the Baroness. It wasn't anything you could consciously identify. It was something about the way she held her body. It made her look softer, less dangerous. The double-edged sword she'd been handling so competently suddenly looked a little too heavy for her.

  "Tony, darling!" she said. "How nice! Is it lunch time already?"

  His eyes were roving suspiciously over Sumo's wiry form, glistening with sweat and almost naked in the metal mesh loincloth.

  "Practicing your fencing, are you?" Cavendish said. "Look a bit unwieldy, those swords."

  "That's the idea, darling," the Baroness said. "It's good exercise. Helps to firm up the figure. Better than riding an exercycle. And less boring."

  Cavendish was giving Sumo that automatic appraisal that men give to other men in the presence of a woman to see if they represent any sexual competition. The moment of challenge passed. There was no threat, despite the loincloth. Sumo had arranged his own body language to read "servant."

  "I help the Baroness with her judo and kendo," Sumo said.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Tony, darling," the Baroness said. "This is Tom Sumo. He works for me at International Models, Inc."

  "I'm fashion consultant there," Sumo said. He handed his sword to Cavendish.

  Cavendish hefted the weapon. "Brute of a thing," he said. "Reminds me of a Scottish claymore."

  "It's one of Tommy's family heirlooms," Penelope said.

  "Made by the great swordsmith Masamune in the thirteenth century," Sumo said proudly.

  "Oh?" Cavendish said politely. He turned away, bored, as was Sumo's intention. "I've booked a table for one-fifteen at the Savoy," he said to Penelope.

  "Be ready in a flash, darling," Penelope said. "Tommy can entertain you while I shower."

  She returned fifteen minutes later, looking cool and crisp in a thousand-dollar skirt-and-sweater ensemble by St. Laurent. Her hair bounced on her shoulders, miraculously dry. Tony Cavendish looked up at her gratefull
y. Sumo was hanging on his arm, earnestly explaining the inscriptions on the sword blade.

  "My car's outside," he said.

  Sumo followed them to the door, still talking. Cavendish hurried on ahead. Sumo pressed a small hard object about the size of a lima bean into Penelope's hand. She glanced at it. It was flesh-colored and shaped to fit inside the ear.

  "I planted the transmitter in his pocket, with his other change. It's a two-pence piece. Range of three hundred yards."

  "Thank you, Tommy." She put the tiny receiver in her ear. She could hear the coins jingling in Tony's pocket, quite clearly.

  Perhaps it wasn't ethical to bug your lover, but the British tabloids had been having a field day, printing stories about the sizzling romance the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini was having with swinging playboy-Industrialist Sir Tony Cavendish. Everywhere they went, it seemed, there was some horrid little man with a camera darting out to snap pictures of them together.

  She had to know if it was coincidence, or if Tony was tipping them off. She wouldn't put it past him. Tony was charming, but he was a bit of a pirate, and if he thought he needed publicity for one of his multifarious business activities, he was quite capable of leaking his own private life — and hers — to the press.

  She was fond of Tony, but she didn't like being used. By anyone.

  The Baroness grinned. If it were Tony tipping off the tabloids, she'd teach him a lesson he'd never forget!

  "You look happy," Tony said, holding open the door of his Bentley for her. It was a dove-gray machine with a custom-stretched chassis.

  "That's because it's a lovely day to play hooky."

  "You're not posing for pictures today?"

  "No. We wrapped up the second commercial yesterday. I told Joe Skytop and the crew to take the day off."

  The Baroness had been in England for two weeks now, shooting a series of television spots for the new Angel-Face Cosmetics line. Harvey Amberson III was paying her three-quarters of a million dollars for the use of her face. She'd met Tony the first day on the set. As chairman of the Caledonian Oil Corporation — one of his several titles — he was personally taping a series of ecology-oriented TV messages at the same London studio.

  They'd bumped into one another in the corridor during the lunch break. He'd taken her to the Connaught in Mayfair for the truite soufflée au Riesling. They'd never gotten to the dessert. There had been an instant animal magnetism between them. Facing him over the trout, she'd found herself warm and a little short of breath. She could see that Tony's face, too, was flushed. He was squirming in his seat. Her townhouse in Mayfair was conveniently nearby, though she'd been staying at Claridge's while it was being opened up. They'd made love on the drawing room carpet, amidst the humped ghostly shapes of the sheet-draped furniture. The second time, they'd made it to the bedroom. They arrived back at the studio in mid-afternoon, to find their respective crews waiting patiently, at several thousand dollars an hour.

  They hadn't missed a day since, despite their busy schedules, though sometimes they'd had to settle for a quick one in an editing cubicle at the studio, or a couch in his London offices, or the back seat of the Bentley with the chauffeur discreetly flipping the rearview mirror askew. The more sensational tabloids had picked up their affair at once, with headlines like baroness sizzles while tony burns, and that dreadful picture that showed her emerging from his box at Ascot, captioned: more fun than drilling for oil? London hostesses seated them together now as a matter of course, and the gossips were happily buzzing.

  The car pulled up in front of the Savoy. The chauffeur came around and opened the door.

  "There he is!" Penelope said. "That nasty little man! He's the same one who pesters Jackie when she's in London."

  Tony followed her gaze. The photographer was scurrying toward them, a sloppy, unshaven, pear-shaped man in a loud suit.

  "I wonder how he knew we were coming here," Tony said.

  She got out of the car. The photographer was close enough for her to smell garlic. He gave her an unsavory grin. She could see food in his teeth.

  "Come on, folks," he whined. "How about a big smile for the camera?"

  "Bug off!" Tony snapped.

  The photographer gave him a knowing smirk, the kind the paparazzi reserve for their victims, and said, "Be nice, Tony."

  He pushed closer to the curb and began snapping away. Tony took Penelope by the elbow and hurried her toward the Savoy entrance. The doorman started forward to help. The photographer was dancing along at their side, his Nikon clicking. Tony scowled, his head down.

  "Get away, you!" he said through clenched teeth.

  By now the photographer was in front of them, scuttling backward. He thrust the camera in her face.

  "Smile, honey," he coaxed. "I can sell it to The Tattle-tale for a hundred pounds."

  She smiled. He gaped, unable to believe his good fortune. His little hands grew busier on the shutter release. And the Baroness brought her heel down on his instep. It was a narrow heel. The force concentrated at the end of it amounted to some three tons per square inch. There was the sharp crunch of splintering bone. He screamed and sat down suddenly on the sidewalk, the camera dangling from his neck.

  The Baroness stepped fastidiously around him. She didn't look back.

  "Oh, dear!" she said. "I must have stepped on his foot."

  The photographer was cradling his broken foot, tears running down his face.

  "You bitch!" he called after her. "I'll sue you for this!"

  She swept through the Savoy entrance. "Dreadful person," she murmured. "I don't suppose he'll find it too easy to follow us around for a while."

  Tony was looking at her thoughtfully. "It was an accident, of course?"

  "Of course, darling," she laughed.

  "I suppose," Tony mused, "he was lucky you weren't carrying that bloody samurai sword when you tripped."

  The waiter seated them at Tony's table, by the window overlooking the river. Penelope sipped at a martini, looking out at the boat traffic through the tender green of the trees. They were sitting over their omelets Arnold Bennett, the marvelous Savoy concoction stuffed with flaked haddock, grated cheese, and cream, when a large vulgar-looking man with a gold tooth and a diamond pinky ring came over to their table, his napkin still in his hand.

  "How's the drilling coming, Tony?" he said.

  "We're bringing up some interesting cores," Tony said. "We're getting there."

  "You'll have to bring up more than cores, old chap. Illingford's already getting oil. The directors don't like to gamble. If it's between Caledonian and Illingford, guess where they'll put their money?"

  "See if you can hold them off a while, Max. The situation may change."

  "I'll do my best, old chap, but you'll have to do your part." He winked. "If you know what I mean."

  "I'll see to it," Tony snapped, rather angrily.

  The large man looked inquiringly at Penelope. Tony did not offer to introduce her. After a while, the man shambled back to his own table.

  "Who's that?" Penelope said.

  "Max Dettrick of the Threebody Investment Group. His playmates think they've got me by the balls.

  "Do they, darling?"

  "Of course not, love. You ve got me there. He laughed, but he seemed strangely distant.

  "What did he mean — you'll have to do your part?"

  Tony hesitated. "The bastard wants a bribe, that's all. I've already given him a couple of thousand quid."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  "It's a rough game, drilling for oil in the North Sea," he said defensively. "I'm racing a hundred other developers. The Yanks are there, and the Dutch and the bloody Norwegians. The Scots are starting to feel their oats. Aberdeen's turned into an oil-boom town. There's a lot of competition for investment money. It costs over a million pounds just to explore one hole. It's a real scramble. The early birds are going to be the big winners."

  "And is Caledonian Oil an early bird?"

  He n
odded. "We've got four promising holes so far. We're already bringing up methane and ethane. The oil can't be far below."

  "But Illingford is ahead of you?"

  "Among others," he admitted.

  She poked at her omelet with a fork. "And you'll do anything to win?"

  "Anything," he said cheerfully.

  "Bribery, skullduggery, and press agentry?" she teased him.

  "And murder most foul," he finished for her. He gave her one of his charming, superficial smiles.

  They ate in silence for a while. Tony seemed uneasy and preoccupied. He fidgeted in his chair. It wasn't like him. Finally he put down his fork and got up.

  "Excuse me, love," he said. "I've a telephone call to make. I won't be half a minute."

  She watched him walk across the room, threading his way through the tables. In her ear was the metallic clink of small change.

  She fingered the plastic plug and made a small bet with herself. Tony was not going to phone The Tattletale with an anonymous tip. There wasn't going to be another photographer waiting outside the Savoy when they emerged, to replace the unsavory little man whose foot she'd broken. Tony wouldn't do that. Not her Tony.

  But if he did, he was going to be a very unhappy former lover.

  Those balls she was supposed to have him by were going to be as sore as she could manage to make them.

  The jingling in her ear stopped. Tony had reached the telephones. There was the jingle of a coin in the slot, and she counted the clicks of the inland long-distance code. A harsh voice with a Scottish burr answered.

  "Aye?"

  "Callum?" Tony's voice was louder and more distinct than the other.

  "And who would that be, now?" the voice said cautiously.

  "Come off it, man!" Tony said impatiently.

  "Oh," the other voice said, and waited.

  "I just talked to Max," Tony said. "Illingford's bringing up oil."

  "Not anymore, they aren't. What they're bringing up is a lot of stinking sludge." Callum laughed harshly. "It's not oil anymore. It smells like rotten fish, and it won't burn."