by Fritz Galt
She looked with alarm toward her husband in the window. He had turned his back. Her glare burned white hot. So hot, in fact, that her eyes almost lost their reason. “Enjoy your party,” he said, and strode off to the cabana.
He closed the door and stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror. He tried to see what Odette might see in his strapping frame. He was never sure if women saw the same man that he saw. He wasn’t even sure that he was looking at the same parts of his anatomy that women looked at. He could only guess at what Odette liked.
By the time he emerged, nine-tenths naked, Odette had left the terrace. He only saw the pebbled tiles, the empty deck furniture, flickering shadows cast by torch lights and the deep azure pool lapping at his feet.
A wisp of breeze stirred the fragrant jasmine that rimmed the deck.
He leaned forward into the wall of heat and plunged toward the underwater light.
May-lin sat on a puffy sofa in the corner of the living room while André made his business presentation.
He set his eyeglasses on top of his balding head, mopped his brow and began. “Our consortium acquired a bomb for the earthquake. Taiwan put its supreme commander of the armed forces, General Li, in control of the rescue response, and he has declared martial law. It seems that General Li diverted a great deal of government funds to capitalize on insider information concerning the Shanghai Securities Exchange. Our man in Taipei has informed General Li of his options. Records of transfers from his account are all the evidence we need to apply the necessary pressure on him. At your pleasure, General Li will summon the People’s Liberation Army to his island for permanent occupation. What could be simpler than that?”
He laughed, but nobody joined in. They were looking at his briefcase.
He had set the metal briefcase on the rosewood table, nearly scratching its deep red patina.
“Here you go, General Chou. I hand you Taiwan on a silver platter.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” came a reedy Chinese voice.
An elderly male house servant stood in the doorway with a smartly dressed businesswoman.
“Miss Stephanie Williams from American Allied Incorporated,” he announced.
Miss Williams’ hair was long and blonde, and it floated back over her padded shoulders as she strode in. A predatory smile played across her face as she took in the plush living room.
André started to object.
A cautionary, lifted eyebrow nailed him in his place as she set her black leather shoulder bag on the table beside his briefcase.
“You’ll find all your evidence in here, General,” she said.
General Chou frowned and approached the table.
“Mr. Ouyang?” he said. “How do you explain this?”
Johnny was at a loss for words. “My wife—” he spluttered.
But Odette wasn’t there.
The general glanced at the sweating Frenchman, then locked eyes with the attractive American businesswoman. Not taking his eyes off her, he thrust his sinewy fingers against the two buttons on the Frenchman’s briefcase. The latches didn’t open.
A smile played on the woman’s lips.
Still drinking in the American woman’s expression, the general pushed the case toward André.
“You open it.”
André retrieved his handkerchief and mopped his upper lip. Then he jabbed his thick fingers against the releases.
No luck.
He tried repeatedly with no success.
The general turned to Stephanie’s simple black shoulder bag. Expressionless, he drew the leather drawstring open and inserted a hand.
He pulled out several papers and glanced over them. Gradually, a smile appeared on his face.
He turned the bag on end and more sheets spilled onto the table. He studied the pages carefully, then held them up for all to see. “Access codes for three hundred million dollars in private accounts.”
“They’re fake,” André shouted. He rattled his briefcase and pounded on the latches. “Those aren’t the actual codes. This is the original case we brought from Shanghai.”
“These look authentic to me,” the general said. “Shall we check them on Johnny’s computer?”
“They don’t prove it’s General Li’s money,” André complained.
“No, they don’t,” Stephanie said. “Here is the proof.”
She unfolded her arms and circled the group. A mischievous grin spread across her lips. She slipped two long fingers between her breasts and pulled out folded sheets of paper.
She stepped in front of General Chou, her forehead inches from his chin. “I believe this will authenticate the transfer.”
The general took it from her and read aloud, “‘Transfer of three hundred million dollars from HongkongBank under General Li’s name.’” He held up the second sheet, a letter. “And here’s his authorization, the transaction number and his signature.”
He compared the two sheets.
“Yes, the transaction numbers match.”
He turned to André, who stood agape.
“I know how badly you wanted the contract. I even understand your trying to build up my career. I’m only astounded by your complete incompetence.”
“But I purchased the bomb from you,” André insisted. “Don’t you remember?”
“As I recall, someone purchased a bomb for Pakistan.”
The creases in André’s jowls grew deeper. “I can prove to you that we exploded it.”
“That would be most interesting,” General Chou said.
The Frenchman turned with desperation to Johnny, who had watched the scene unfold with increased agitation. “Where is your wife?”
Alec swam upward to the pool’s placid surface and was greeted by a pair of female legs.
He held the edge of the pool and gazed up the naked limbs.
A few trim patches of orange fabric barely concealed parts of her figure. A provocative smile emerged from deep within Odette’s ringlets of dark hair.
Her knees bent forward, her round hips flexed and she soared overhead.
He turned with the splash and watched her shadow prowl the floor of the pool.
He treaded water and waited.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw figures in animated conversation projected against the ceiling of the mansion.
Odette popped out of the water at the far end of the pool, a satisfied gasp escaping her lips. She spun and flicked her hair out of her eyes, her full lips sporting a lascivious grin.
Somewhere between having to and wanting to, he gave her his full attention. The two swimmers converged mid-pool. Kissing and staying afloat wasn’t difficult as long as she clawed him and his arms were free to tread water.
He spun her in a circle while her legs slipped around his torso. Her lissome thighs nearly squeezed out his breath.
He let her cradle his head in her hands, her lips touching his. Then she started to siphon off his soul.
Dizzy, he began to slip under the water. He paddled and kicked frantically while she continued to ply herself upon him. Finally, he felt her thighs release him. She kicked alongside him, upwards toward air. Their loins rubbed against each other in rhythmic strokes.
He steered for the ladder.
Her body draped over him, he hoisted her out of the water. She wove her dripping fingers into and out of the strings of his swimsuit.
“Odette!” her husband boomed from the balcony.
Her lips froze on his ear. He felt a small quiver in her spine.
He slackened his grip and eased her to the ground.
Her face burned red. She took a few jerky steps toward a towel. The small towel couldn’t conceal her heaving chest or her skimpy bikini.
André stomped up to the pool, followed by the other curious guests. “Tell General Chou about the bomb,” he said. “It was the European Consortium that delivered it. Tell him so.”
Johnny Ouyang popped in front of the group and stared in disbelief at his wife.
Partially obscured from the husband’s view, Alec slipped his hands around Odette’s exposed buttocks.
A tall blonde pushed Johnny aside. “Tell him American Allied set the bomb.”
Alec nearly emitted an involuntary laugh. It was Stephanie Williams, his classmate from the CIA.
He squeezed the pliant flesh harder. Odette smiled weakly at her husband, who continued to gape at her with astonishment.
General Chou walked closer to the dripping pair. “Can you tell us who set the bomb?”
Alec whispered in her ear, “Dear, it was the American firm.”
Odette closed her eyes and inhaled deeply to calm herself. “Of course, it was the American firm, American Allied. I set off the bomb, but I was working for the Americans.”
“There you have it,” General Chou said. “It was all as simple as that.”
“Just tell me where I sign,” Stephanie said, her blue eyes raking Alec’s chest before planting her gaze on General Chou.
“Right here, Ms. Williams.” The general withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.
Reading the contract, Stephanie walked over to a round metal table.
“A pen?” she demanded when she was ready.
Johnny jumped to offer her a pen.
All eyes fell on her as her abundant blonde hair momentarily draped over the contract.
May-lin walked past Odette and Alec and handed them larger towels.
He thanked her, and May-lin gave an inscrutable smile.
Drying off, he stole a glance at the familiar blonde playing the businesswoman. Stephanie Williams was a long way from Budapest, where they had shared an exploit or two in the not so distant past. She didn’t work for American Allied any more than he did.
He turned to Odette. “The bomb and earthquake were all for the sake of a contract?”
She shivered under her wrap. “All for the sake of my future.”
Alec watched General Chou straighten his back, give Stephanie a firm handshake, and signal for his helicopter. The huge blades began to whirl.
“May I offer you a lift?” the general asked her.
“I’m heading back to Shanghai.”
“I’ll take you there personally.”
She smiled in consent.
With that, General Chou turned and bowed to the rest.
Johnny stepped forward. “I assume Taiwan is now yours to control,” he said, trying to restore himself to the general’s good graces.
“Why would you assume that?”
“The evidence is in your hands.”
General Chou turned to Stephanie. “Give me the records of General Li’s transfers.”
She handed him two pieces of paper.
He held them up to a torch. The papers curled and turned brown, and the embers drifted into the air.
André gasped.
The corners of Stephanie’s mouth curved upward.
Johnny smiled weakly. His face was white and glistened with perspiration.
“Sir, I assure you,” the general said. “I have no intention of invading Taiwan.” Clutching the stack of access codes to his chest, he led Stephanie across the grass to his helicopter.
Within seconds, the door shut behind them and the Chinese army helicopter lifted off the tiny knob on Victoria Peak.
Several seconds later, it slid over open space toward China’s southern border.
Mick crouched close to the ground, sandwiched behind a pungent hedge of boxwood and the gray Jaguar. Several bushes away knelt Harvey Talbot and Natalie.
The headlights of another car swung off the road onto the curved drive to the mansion. It was a taxicab.
It stopped and set its parking brake against the steep slope.
Mick heard Eli Shaw’s voice carry through the heavy night air. He was trying to pay the Hong Kong cabby in Chinese money.
Finally, the cabby accepted a wad of bills and rolled back down the hill.
“Psst. Over here,” Mick whispered harshly.
A helicopter engine began to whir on the estate’s grounds.
Eli trotted over to the hedges and nearly tripped over Mick.
“Get down,” Mick whispered.
“Thanks for the call,” Eli whispered across to Harvey, his Hong Kong counterpart. “I had no idea where you went.”
“Keep your voice down.”
They watched a slim Chinese-made helicopter rise over the estate.
Mick reached into Stephanie’s pocketbook and groped for a small device. Exactly as the director of AIT had said, he found a black remote with a green button.
His fingers trembling, he released the safety lock and slid his index finger over the button.
Eli watched him with a look of incredulity. “Is that a—”
Mick raised a finger to his lips and turned his attention to the brightly lit mansion. The roof tiles shimmered in the evening heat. A cool glow from the swimming pool reflected off the building and against a stand of cypress trees.
The slender silhouette of a Chinese woman and the near-naked form of his brother slipped past the guard booth and out the gate.
Mick called to Alec and the woman he presumed to be May-lin. “Quick. Get behind the car.”
Eli half-rose and handed Alec his trenchcoat.
Beyond the watchman, a group of three people stepped into view. One was a beautiful creature nearly bursting from her orange bikini, another was a diminutive Chinese man in a casual business suit, and the third was a large man with thick glasses.
The three paused to stare at the metal briefcase that they held between them. The overweight man’s face lifted as if he had a sudden revelation. As he turned toward the gate and stared through the security lights, his features became clear.
Mick’s heart jumped to his throat.
He stood up. “Dr. Morisot, what the hell?”
The man stood still like a deer sensing danger, his feet splayed, sweat dripping from his chin. The unmistakable face turned gruesome with fear. In the darkness, he couldn’t see Mick, only hear the familiar voice.
Morisot held the incriminating briefcase awkwardly. He had claimed so many innocent lives on Taiwan. Not only had the insufferable man instigated the destruction of the island, Mick had saved his life.
Mick slipped back behind the Jaguar. There, he sunk to the ground and fought a bout of numbing coldness that nearly blotted out all thought. His arms stiffened until the muscles pinched and hurt.
The hard metal device sat wedged in the palm of his hand. It could end all three lives.
“Mick,” Natalie cried with alarm.
He looked up. Her eyes were soft. She was tender, warm, alive.
He fingered the round button, traced its contours. He was unable to apply pressure.
“Mick,” she repeated. She inched toward him. “If anybody in the world should suffer, it’s him.”
He remembered a dear friend once saying, “If I had one bullet, I know who I’d use it on.”
Mick had the bullet and knew who deserved it.
Standing up so that he could be seen, his arms limp, he looked for validation in Morisot’s eyes.
The glasses flashed his way and reflected only blackness.
Then Morisot recognized him in the half-light. A surreal smile spread across his lips. He wasn’t facing death with dignity. Rather, he was laughing at it. Morisot knew he was looking at the one man in the entire CIA who couldn’t kill him. The irony was perfect.
He drew his revolver and aimed it directly at Mick.
Holding the gun level for a moment, he let out a cold, sustained laugh. His cynical, scientific amusement was fully satisfied.
Mick could hear the same laugh echoing through the demolished streets of Taipei. The streets that had once teemed with life.
Up yours, Dr. Morisot.
Something moved his index finger to the center of the green button.
The briefcase detonated in the face of the small man, the half-naked woman, and Morisot.
The
resulting thunderous concussion knocked Mick off his feet. On his back, he watched the house and trees glow white. A crimson geyser sprayed across the pool.
Mick slid lower as debris and charred flesh flew his way.
In the burnt stillness that ensued, blood dripped off the car and trickled in a warm stream down his neck and back. He let out his breath.
Beside him lay Natalie, covered in blood, her finger still on top of his.
He felt her shoulders tremble. She was softly crying.
But Mick’s eyes were dry.
AFTERMATH
Sunday
Chapter 45
It was early Sunday morning when Stephanie walked into a dark, damp study above the American consulate general in Shanghai. A television flickered mutely in one corner of the room.
Plywood covered all but one window, the only one that had survived the riot. The carpet smelled wet from rain.
The street was dark and quiet except for the sound of sweepers cleaning up brick and glass with whiskbrooms.
She found Pete Cavanaugh reading the Liberation Daily under a floor lamp run by an emergency generator.
Without looking up, he folded back the newspaper to an editorial piece, and read the communist column aloud, “And I quote: ‘We must especially prevent rumors that cause chaos in the market. Once we find who spread the rumors, we should immediately pursue them one by one to the end.’”
“Too late, pals,” Stephanie said, as if talking directly to China’s leadership. “They’ve already been pursued.”
She handed him the $55,000,000 contract for the MLRs that had the signature “Angela Murphy” in her handwriting at the bottom.
“Fifty-five million dollars,” Cavanaugh said with a whistle. “Do you think we could dig up enough MLRs to fill this order?”
“In the blink of an eye,” she said. “I’m considering walking away from this moribund agency I work for and joining the freewheeling ranks of the Foreign Commercial Service.”
He carried the contract over to the window. A hint of sunlight glowed in the cloudy, eastern sky. Power was out across the city. Only dark windows lined the offices of the French Concession.