The Mountains Of Brega rb-17

by Джеффри Лорд

  The Mountains Of Brega

  ( Richard Blade - 17 )

  Джеффри Лорд

  Роланд Джеймс Грин

  The Mountains of Brega

  Blade 17

  By Jeffrey Lord

  Chapter 1

  Richard Blade was bored. This condition very seldom killed anybody. It did not very often make people want to die. But it could and did take away much of a man's zest for living. At the moment, it was doing that to Richard Blade.

  He turned on the heel of one custom-made shoe and stared out the floor-to-ceiling window of the deluxe flat. The peach-colored velvet draperies were drawn back, and through the heavy glass he could see London spread out below. The flat was forty stories up in one of the newest of London's luxury buildings, so Blade could see a long way. The twinkling lights and spots of color that were neon signs seemed to march endlessly away into the darkness. It was an unusually clear night, but the spectacle did nothing to diminish Blade's boredom.

  From behind him came the noises of a cocktail party. Ice cubes clinked in glasses, corks popped, soda-water siphons hissed like snakes. The noises simply made Blade feel more bored. They were so expected, so conventional.

  Blade was at the party more out of a sense of duty than anything else. He was there as the guest of a certain young lady who wanted to show him off to her «set.» She had been quite frank about that. She hadn't been quite as frank about why she was showing him off. But Blade had an almost instinctive ability to read another person's intentions toward him. He wouldn't have been alive without it. And what he read in Clarissa was the desire to snare him for a husband.

  He was certainly eligible enough. The Richard Blade who moved elegantly through the London social whirl was one of the most eligible bachelors around. Wit, charm, intelligence, and an ample if vague income, he had them all. Though he had left forty behind, his face and body showed no signs that he was much more than thirty. Not a confirmed bachelor, in other words-still young enough for a determined woman to mold into whatever kind of husband might strike her fancy.

  The faint reflection from the window glass gave Blade a picture of his face and body. It was a strong face-the face of a warrior rather than a courtier. Blade had been both in his career, in places stranger and more distant than anyone in the room could or would believe even if he chose to tell them.

  And the body inside the custom-tailored jacket-that was an athlete's body, six feet one and a little more, carrying two hundred and ten pounds on its large bones. It suggested a former rowing or tennis Blue from Oxford who had kept himself in excellent trim. Blade had been those, among other things.

  Now he was almost physically itching with boredom. He looked at his reflection in the window again and noticed a pale face framed in dark hair hovering near his right shoulder. He drained the last of his drink and turned to face the slender woman who had drifted up behind him as he stared out the window.

  She must have been at least five feet eight. Her dark brown hair swept up to a point almost on a level with the top of Blade's head, and her wide gray eyes looked almost straight into his. From her grooming and poise, Blade thought at first that she might be a fashion model. But her figure was too full in the hips and bosom, and her legs were too elegantly curved to make her a good object on which to hang current fashions.

  She smiled as she sensed his eyes going over her. «You look bored, I think. Yes?» There was a slight trace of a foreign accent in her low voice. Blade tried to place it. Not French; not Italian. German? Vaguely, but not quite. Somewhere farther to the east? Quite possibly. Without any outwardly visible sign, Blade was on the alert.

  «Rather,» he drawled. He wanted to sound a little like the stereotyped silly-ass English playboy. A little, but not too much.

  The woman smiled again. «My name is Elizabeth.» The b sounded almost like a v. «You are-?»

  «Blade. Richard Blade. I'm a friend of Clarissa's.»

  «Ah, another one of the men she brings around to show off.»

  «You know her?»

  «For several years I have known her. She helped me a lot when I first came to England.»

  «Where did you come from?» The question slipped out before it occurred to him that it might be untactful. If the woman had come to England from somewhere behind the Iron Curtain, she might not wish to talk about her reasons for doing so.

  «I am Czech,» said Elizabeth. «I was in England in 1968 when the Russians marched into my country, and I did not want to go back. Clarissa helped me very much, to find a job and get settled. I owe her a good deal. But I cannot think much of the way she is always showing off her men friends.»

  «Like a hunter, showing off trophies?»

  Elizabeth laughed. «Yes, exactly.» She looked Blade over from head to foot, the same way he had done her. Then she smiled and said, «'This time I think she has caught a good one.»

  Blade couldn't help smiling, even though the flattery was rather transparent. Listening to an attractive woman say things like that to him was always pleasant, even if he suspected she was playing games. And he did suspect Elizabeth. He decided to draw her out a little more.

  «Actually, I wouldn't say I've been caught, not really,» he said.

  «You and Clarissa are-just good friends, I think the saying goes?»

  Blade nodded. He made a mental note that Elizabeth was not a very skilled player, unless her game was something he couldn't even imagine. She was too eager, too fast with her answers. He was not going to have much chance to reveal himself-unless they wound up in bed. That was all right with him. But he was going to keep on the alert, no matter how the evening ended.

  Elizabeth threw her head back and smiled warmly at Blade. The motion thrust her full breasts out even farther against the red wool of her dress. Blade didn't need to keep his eyes off those breasts and didn't try. The woman noticed where his eyes were.

  To give the impression of being entirely at ease, Blade said, «Would you like another drink?» He pointed at the woman's empty glass.

  «I would, but not any more of Clarissa's. I still can't get used to Scotch or mixed drinks. I have a better idea. I have some real Czech brandy in my apartment. Why don't we go over there and try that?»

  «Why not, indeed?» said Blade, with a grin. He did his best to make it a mindlessly lecherous grin, but his mind was turning with almost audible clicks. Elizabeth's game of getting him to her apartment was transparently obvious. Why was she playing it, and playing it so crudely? Was it just plain and simple lust for a handsome man, or something more? Richard Blade had been a professional secret agent for far too long to rule out the possibility of something more.

  But he would never find out either way if he didn't accept Elizabeth's invitation. He took her hand and squeezed it with a firm but gentle pressure. «I'll make my apologies to Clarissa, and then we can go. Is your apartment far?»

  Elizabeth nodded and named an address about four miles away.

  «Then we'll take my car. Do you mind riding in an MG?»

  «Not at all.» She looked at him again, with obvious invitation in her eyes. «Somehow a sports car-it fits you, what I think you are.»

  Blade made his way over to the bar and went through the routine of saying goodbye to Clarissa. He was glad that Elizabeth had agreed to ride with him. One telephone call to the man known as J, one twist of a concealed switch, and the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police would be tracking him all the way to his destination.

  Elizabeth clung tightly to his arm as they rode down in the elevator, flashing increasingly warm smiles at him all the while. In the lobby of the building he excused himself. «I need to mak
e a phone call-tell the office I may be late tomorrow.» He looked at her as he said that, watching for any reaction.

  All he could see was a small frown, making a faint crease in the high, pale forehead. «I thought you had an independent income, Mr. Blade.»

  Blade did not snap «Where did you learn that?» but it was a close call. He could not avoid stiffening slightly, however. He had not mentioned one word about his living in their conversation. Elizabeth's question was a definite clue-a nasty one, too.

  But he was calm again within seconds. He merely said, «Oh, I do. But the chaps at Consolidated Jute seem to think my father's son is worth something. So I go into the Production Division's office two or three days a week. Mostly, I've better ways to spend my time. But I do have to make that call.» He gently pulled himself free from her arm and strode across the lobby toward the public phone behind one of the marble columns.

  It was virtually impossible that this public phone could be tapped by the opposition, so Blade was not worried about his brief message getting to the wrong ears as he spoke into the phone.

  «J-Traveler here. Bodkin falling. Listen.»

  In plain English:

  «J-this is Richard Blade. I think somebody's trying to entrap me. I'm turning on the homer in my car. Alert the Special Branch men and have them trace it and follow me.» He had no need to worry either about the message not being passed on. Any of his cryptic call-signs would trigger the alarm on J's telephone monitor and have the old spymaster on the move in minutes. The head of the secret intelligence division MI6 had not lived as long or risen as high as he had by letting critical messages slip by him.

  Secure in the knowledge that he had alerted the appropriate people, Blade rejoined Elizabeth. His hand found her arm again. This time her hand squeezed back with more warmth than before. Hand in hand, they walked out to the garage where Blade had parked his MG. They climbed in, and Blade started up the engine, then turned to Elizabeth.

  «Would you like a cigarette?»

  «No, thank you.»

  «Mind if I smoke, then?»

  «Not at all.»

  Blade reached into the breast pocket of his coat for a gold-plated cigarette case and extracted a Benson ith his other hand he reached for the cigarette lighter and shoved it in. As he did so, he also gave it a small twist to the left. With that twist, a solid-state circuit was completed, and the car's electronic tracer went on. Then he lit the cigarette, shoved the lighter back into its socket, and put the car in motion.

  By the CMG's odometer, the four miles Elizabeth had mentioned were more like six. They were well out into the southwest corner of London before they stopped. For the last half of the trip they had followed a zigzag course, turning at irregular intervals down dark side streets. It was a course that made no sense at all, unless Elizabeth was trying to shake off any car that might be trailing them. Several times Blade caught her looking intently into the sideview mirror. If Elizabeth was an agent for the opposition, she was a remarkably clumsy one. Or she was a highly skilled agent pretending to be clumsy to catch him off guard. That had happened before. In fact, Blade himself had done it more than once.

  Eventually Elizabeth gestured to the middle one of a trio of Victorian townhouses. Once they had been the modestly luxurious residences of city merchants or bankers; now they had fallen, if not exactly on evil days, at least on less prosperous ones. Blade could see peeling paint, unwashed windows, and untended front lawns under the dim streetlamps.

  In fact, the lamplight was so dim that Blade was fully alert as they climbed out of the car. The half-dark street and the totally dark alleys could easily hide enough men to ambush a platoon. But they reached the door, climbed the stairs, and entered Elizabeth's third-floor flat without incident. The name on the flat's door was Elizabeth Hruska. A good enough Czech name.

  The flat was an ordinary bed-sitter, with the luxury of a modern kitchen-or at least a modern stove-and a halfway modern bath. Elizabeth waved one hand toward the couch by the kitchen door. «Make yourself at home, Mr.-Richard. The brandy is in the cabinet over the refrigerator. I am going to get out of this dress before I roast in it.»

  As Elizabeth had suggested, Blade went to the cupboard. The brandy was there, a Czech brand Blade recognized as highly reputable. He poured out two glasses and cautiously sniffed at both of them. Then he quickly scanned the kitchen. There were more places than he could count where a concealed microphone or even a concealed lens might be lurking. He could never search them all, even if he wanted to.

  And Blade didn't want to. He didn't want to give any observers the idea that he was a trained professional at this game-which he had been for nearly twenty years. He wanted to let them think he was a fat and unsuspecting fly that had blundered into their web. At least until the time came for them to discover that they had blundered into his. He grinned.

  The spider-versus-spider games of espionage had been his life so long that he could hardly help enjoying it.

  The kitchen window opened onto a rust-scarred iron fire escape. Blade looked up and down it as far as he could without opening the window. He noticed that the window locked from the inside. That was usual in this neighborhood. But the lock was open-not usual in this neighborhood. With his eyes on the kitchen door, he carefully flipped the lock closed. Anybody coming down the fire escape and expecting an easy entrance through the kitchen window would get a surprise.

  Blade picked up the two glasses of brandy, went back into the sitting room, and sat down on the couch. As an afterthought, he took off his coat and tie and unbuttoned the collar of his hand-made silk shirt. He didn't need anything in the coat, since he did not go armed in England. He hardly needed to, in any case-not with a fourth dan black belt in karate.

  The sound of bare feet on the carpet made him look up. Elizabeth had indeed taken off her dress, and practically everything else she had been wearing. Now she wore a long, flowing nightdress, with full-length sleeves and a high neck. It did not conceal very much, however, for it was semi-transparent. Blade did not need to imagine what Elizabeth's body was like any longer. It was a full-fleshed East European body, a hearty young peasant girl's body. Large breasts thrust out the fabric of the nightdress, and proportionately large nipples thrust out even farther as the breasts swayed.

  Blade rose to his feet and held out his arms as she approached, with a broad grin on his face. He would have worn that grin even if he had not found her attractive. But Blade was a man of large appetites and a large capacity for pleasure. He had never been able to make love in a cool or detached manner.

  Elizabeth took his hands, and a smile spread across her face, telling Blade that she knew exactly what was on his mind. He hoped she didn't know what he was really thinking-when would her confederates make their move, if they were going to make one? And what kind of move would it be? Was this just a blackmail effort, or were enemy agents really going to try a body-snatch on him?

  Elizabeth was picking up her brandy glass, and Blade decided not to try answering those questions. He took his own glass, raised it to clink with hers, and said, «Cheers.»

  She smiled. «To a good night's work,» she said, and giggled. Then she drained the glass at one gulp. Blade considered the nervous note in her giggle and the gulped brandy. She wasn't quite able to keep up the air of cheerful sensuality that she was trying to project-at least not without a quick drink. It was long odds that this girl was an amateur, caught in something far beyond her depth. How and why? Another question he wasn't going to answer now.

  Blade emptied his own glass in five deliberate swallows and set it down on the arm of the couch. It was good brandy; he had to admit that. Then his arms rose again, and reached out for Elizabeth.

  She was in them before he had them fully raised. A moment later her lips were clinging to his. Those lips were wide open, but there was no warmth or wetness on them or in them. For a moment the sudden shock of those lips against his almost killed Blade's desire. Then Elizabeth's hands came up and locked around
the back of his neck. They drew his head forward and down, played in his chair, crept down under his collar. One hand moved away from his neck and around to his throat. Slim but nimble fingers undid the buttons of his shirt from the top down. Then they roamed over the muscle-layered chest and flat stomach, for Blade wore no undershirt.

  If Elizabeth was doing this against her inclinations, she was not letting that stand in the way of doing it well. Blade felt his breath beginning to come fast, and felt a familiar warm ache swelling in his groin. He knew that if he looked down there would be another and more visible swelling in the front of his dark blue pants.

  Elizabeth did look down. The hand that had been stroking Blade's chest moved down to where her eyes were aimed. The fingers stroked momentarily in this new place, then closed on Blade's zipper. A sharp metallic zzzzt, and the same fingers were reaching in to close around Blade's swollen member.

  They were just as skilled there as they had been higher up. In fact, they were almost unbearable when they got inside Blade's shorts and began playing with his bare flesh. He had to bite back a gasp. Then he managed to grate out:

  «For God's sake-you're half-naked-let me-«He was partly pretending to be half out of his mind with desire, but only partly.

  Elizabeth understood and stepped away from him while he struggled out of his clothes. The sound of ripping cloth told him of another shirt gone to hell, but he was long past caring. Kicking and hurling his clothes wildly in all directions, in a few seconds he was wearing even less than Elizabeth.

  Her eyes widened in unmistakable admiration at the sight of Blade's physique. It was an admiration as genuine as Blade's own arousal, but Blade knew that nothing would keep Elizabeth from carrying out whatever job she had been given-if any.

  If any. Blade found himself hoping that the whole idea of an attempt against him was simply the result of his own overworked imagination. Elizabeth promised a first-class tumble, and damn it, he didn't want things complicated by anyone barging into the middle of it. He bloody well didn't!