The meat lumped in Eddie's throat. He swallowed, hard, and it went down. In a choked voice he asked, "What's so brave about eating mushrooms?"
"Ah, then you haven't heard." The Englishman was the pleased purveyor of fresh news. "The word's gone round that some toadstools have turned up. Poisonous, you know. Actually killed one person out at Zhukovka."
"One person." Eddie kept his voice low and steady. "Did you read this in the newspaper?"
"No, of course not," the Englishman said impatiently. "They don't print things like that, but the news gets round unofficially. The town has been buzzing with it all day."
"This person who died ... do you know who it was?"
"Certainly do. Quite a big shot out in dacha country. Named Suvarov. KGB type, and all that."
"Suvarov." Eddie savored the name.
"Damned shame popping off that way from a poisoned mushroom. Not that I have any great sympathy for the KGB ..."
"Suvarov." He said it one more time, contentedly.
". . . but all the same, it was a hell of a way for the lady to go."
Eddie turned cold. "Did you say . . . lady?"
The Englishman was irritated again. "Of course I did. 1 said it was a big-shot KGB type. Nedya Suvarov, Heroine of the Soviet Union, no less. Suvarova, as they have it. I dare say they'll give her a jolly big funeral."
Eddie closed his eyes. His first thought was: Sweet Jesus, I got the wrong one. I blew away the wife.
His second thought was that Vasily was going to be very upset.
10
Let's go to Erikson. What can you tell me about him? Well, he's a big, tough redhead. A twenty-year army man— four years in Nam with the Green Berets. Right now he's the number two man in the O Group and the number one honcho. He makes things move. What else? He likes his work . . . you know what I mean? He digs the pain and the killing. He's sick. What's so funny?
Your moral indignation. What are his weaknesses?
He doesn't have any.
Nonsense. Everyone has. What does he do for relaxation?
He kills people.
What about women?
He kills them too.
I meant, what does he do when he wants a woman?
He's married. Except . . . wait a minute. Yeah. There was some noise a while back about a hooker up in Washington. He was seeing her pretty often, and I think he hurt her. Let me think. It was a while ago. There was something kinky, I mean really kinky, going on there. I never really understood it, but I'll tell you what I remember. . . .
The colonel's lady returned to Virginia. No questions were asked, no explanations for her absence were offered, and the colonel's Williamsburg home was a happy one again. Each evening when he left his desk at the O Group building he knew that she would be waiting across town for him with a pitcher of martinis and a welcoming smile, and he also knew that when he slumped wearily in his chair at the end of the day she would kneel beside him, her cool hand stroking a blessing on his skin. Once again she was ready to cook for him, cluck over him, cater to his whims; and when they made love in the night she was patient and gentle, showing her pleasure and returning it so bountifully that often as he drifted off to sleep he murmured, "Thank you, Catherine, thank you."
But if the colonel's nights were now a contented dream, his days continued to be part of the ongoing Mancuso nightmare. Each morning the CYBER chattered and spewed forth the results of its overnight computations, and each morning the colonel met in executive session with his number two, Red Erikson, to pore over the printouts. The results were uniformly favorable, the probability against Mancuso's success remaining comfortably high; but on the fifth morning after his wife's return the colonel frowned as he read the report, tapped the sheet with the stem of his pipe, and looked up to see if Erikson was keeping pace with his reading.
"Red, how far have you gotten?"
"1 see it, Colonel."
"Page two, third paragraph?"
"1 see it."
... so that while the predictability of Mancuso's operation remains unchanged, the accumulation of new internal evidence now shows the potential emergence of a procedural pattern. This pattern indicates that Mancuso is likely to strike next against the most vulnerable member of the O Group complex in order to test the capacity of his abilities. Statistically (see appendix CYBER VI-B-27 for formulae) the profile of the target member most closely resembles that of Romeo Arteaga, and under the circumstances it is suggested that maximum security protection be afforded this member, and that. . .
"Get hold of Romeo," said the colonel.
Erikson still stared at the printout. "Jesus, the spick," he said wonderingly. "Why him?"
"Get him."
Erikson swiveled in his chair, punched buttons on the phone, and spoke into it softly. Then he handed ihe instrument to the colonel. "He's in the house. Upstairs."
The colonel spoke into the telephone, listened for a long moment, and then his voice grew stern. "No, 1 know how you feel, but it's an order. I want you on ice, locked up, right now. Yes, here in the house, effective at once. I'll be up to explain it to you later."
He replaced the receiver and stared at Erikson through coils of smoke. "It's okay when we're alone, but I'd be careful about my language around Romeo if 1 were you. He offends easily."
"You mean calling him a spick?" Erikson chuckled, and his shoulders shook. "Colonel, he's a knife man, nothing more, and the day I can't take a knife man is the day I buy the chicken farm. What I don't understand is, why him?"
"CYBER says that on his home ground he's the most vulnerable. Elsewhere it would be different. It makes sense for Eddie to try him first. But that doesn't mean that the rest of us can afford to relax."
Erikson stretched and yawned. "I'm always relaxed, Colonel. And I'm not going to let that little dago change the habits of a lifetime. Relaxation is my middle name."
"You know what I mean. I don't want anybody getting careless."
"Have you ever seen me careless?"
"Everybody gets careless sometime. I just don't want you starting now. It's a battle, Red. Think of it that way. And it's a crazy sort of battle because we can't afford any casualties. Not even one."
Erikson stretched again, and grinned. "The only battle I've got right now is with the income-tax people, and they're giving me more grief than Eddie Mancuso ever will. Those people play tough."
"I told you how to handle them. Stall."
"Oh, I'm stalling, all right, but I sure don't enjoy kissing their asses up in Washington."
"Ride with it. After this flap is over I'll fix things. We have the connections."
"That's a guarantee? No interest? No penalties?"
"Not a penny." The colonel grinned faintly at his dependable number two, the bulk of him sprawled at ease in the armchair. "Income tax. Christ, Red, you're unbelievable. Worrying about an income-tax audit at a time like this."
"That's why I'm still in one piece. I know when to worry and I know when to relax."
But he was still worried the next afternoon as he pounded up Constitution Avenue in Washington, his brisk pace keeping to the shade of the building line, avoiding the sun. The cherry blossoms around the Tidal Basin had fallen from the trees, the brief spring had fled, and summer had struck the city unseasonably early in April. A more leisurely walk would have been in keeping with the weather, but fifteen years of army living had bred in Erikson the habit of the military stride: shoulders braced back, chest flung out, paunch pulled in, arms swinging smoothly. Even the rhythmic click of his leather heels on the hot pavement made him feel alive and vital. The sweat on his skin did not bother him. Sweat cleansed the blood, he believed, and helped to discharge the natural aggressions that built up within him like an unfailing battery charge after nearly a lifetime of combat. He picked up the pace, thinking with pleasure of the shower he would take at Tina's place.
And to hell with the entire Washington bureaucracy, the Internal Revenue Service in particular, an
d most definitely and emphatically to hell with Mr. Henry H. Bedney, the auditor in charge and the frog-faced bastard so intent on nailing him to the cross for back taxes. How can anybody in a secret service pay proper taxes? They carry me on the books as a GS-9—eighteen lousy grand a year, with the rest of it under the table in cash— and now the pencil-pushing idiots at the IRS want to know how that kind of a salary can add up to a sixty-thousand-dollar home without a mortgage, a new car every two years, two sons at VMI and a daughter at Vassar, and an investment portfolio at the Lombard Odier Bank in Geneva.
Well, my wife is very economical with the household money. That's what I should have told him.
The thought of his wife clipping nickels and dimes from the grocery money to help pay for the new Oldsmobile was funny enough to make him laugh, and he almost did. But he was still too close to the interview, just minutes away from having left Mr. Henry H. Bedney behind his cheapie plastic desk in his cheapie cardboard office, and there was no room for laughter yet. There was room only for the memory of Mr. Henry H. Cheapie licking the point of his pencil and asking his probing questions as he went down the list of income and expenses, Erikson all the while trying to answer politely but in fact thinking of nothing but Tina Lee and what he was going to do to her once he got to her apartment. In his mind he constructed every twist and turn he would make with her, while as if from a distance he heard his own voice explaining politely that he spent very little money on personal expenses, and that it really was much more economical to trade in a car every two years to avoid repair bills, and more of the same, and then the thoughts of Tina faded and all he could think of was the electric clamp he had used on the Charlies at Da Nang and how handsome it would look attached to the balls of Mr.
Henry H. Asshole. Who finally had nodded wearily to show that the interview was over, and had told him to come back again the following week, and not to forget the bank statements and the records.
"I won't forget," Erikson had said, still deferential. "I'll bring them all."
"Make sure that you do.
"I will, I will, sir," Erikson had said, and as he added the sir had thought fleetingly of a triangular steel spike that the team once had used for rectal persuasion.
Now, booming up Constitution Avenue, heels clicking, forehead sheened with sweat, he felt the anger building up again. The walk was good for him, far better than taking a taxi, although it was almost half an hour before he reached the Watergate Complex, where Tina lived. His blood was still pouhding as the elevator glided upward, still pushing at his brain as he pushed the bell on the door of apartment 16-G.
Tina Lee, wearing a flowered cheongsam and a demure smile, answered. Her eyes were the pure almond shape, and the perfect bow of her mouth was only faintly touched with pink. Her slender body and gentle hands were in contrast to the fingernails sharp as knives.
"Stanley." She murmured the name she knew him by. "Stanley .. . so nice."
Looking at the Chinese girl, Erikson felt the familiar surge that came whenever he was with an Oriental woman. They had gotten into his blood in Nam, in Taiwan, and in Tokyo, for they understood his needs, any man's needs, far better than any other kind of woman could. His wife would never have understood those needs; in truth, he would not have wanted her to. What he had with Tina and with her darker-skinned sisters was part of a separate life he had come to crave as once he bad craved the electric clamp and the dentist's drill at Da Nang, and although he rarely thought of it now, he knew that the pleasure she gave him was somehow connected to the pleasurable thrill he had felt with the palms of his hands pressed lightly on the kneeling Charlie's shoulder blades, the roar of the chopper loud in his ears, the wind whipping in through the open hatch, the other two Charlies bound and gagged and watching helplessly as he gave the gentle push to the first one that sent him toppling out of the hatch, pinwheeling, fluttering, screaming, and plunging into the jungle treetops far below.
"Stanley . . . how hot you look. Perhaps a shower first? And then a drink?"
He glanced around the cool and shadowed room. "Your friend?"
"In the bedroom. Everything is ready. Just remember, you pay him nothing. I take care of it all."
He nodded his agreement. "Bombay gin, with plenty of ice. I'll shower first."
He went directly into the small bathroom off the hall, stripped off his clothes and folded them neatly, draping his suit on the ready wooden hanger. The cold water bit hard into his flesh. He turned the hot water up as high as it would go, then the cold again, and let it flail him. He let his shoulders droop, felt his gut relax. Looking down, he saw how white his flesh was, close to the color of the tiles. Out of shape, he thought. Got to jog a little. Kelly jogged, and shit, it didn't help Kelly. Now Romeo's under the gun. Does Romeo jog? The hell with it. I'm here to relax. Hey, Mr. Henry H., the two hundred I pay Tina, is it tax deductible?
He came out of the bathroom with the towel knotted around his waist. Tina was waiting with the cold gin, stirring the ice with a long red fingernail. She gave him the glass, kissed his cheek lightly, and together they went into the bedroom.
"This is Big John," Tina said as they entered. "He is someone special."
Erikson stopped in the doorway, staring. Big John was tall and broad, black and naked, save for a purple mask that covered most of his face. He stood with his thick arms crossed over a muscular chest, a riding crop gripped tightly in one hand. Behind him was an umbrella stand filled with other crops and silken whips. The black man stood without moving. Even in repose his cock looked like an ebony length of garden hose. Erikson shivered. He raised the glass to his lips and drank off the gin in one searing gulp to cover the shaking motion. Then he set the glass aside, dropped the towel from his waist, and said to the black man:
"Take the mask off, nigger."
Big John stiffened, then at a sign from Tina his shoulder muscles relaxed. He raised the mask from his face. It was a young face, the lips slightly curled in a derisive smile.
Erikson nodded. "All right, put it back. I'm funny that way. I like to see who I'm dealing with."
He turned to face Tina. She stood calmly by the side of the bed. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Then he opened his eyes and spoke in a voice far different from the one he had used before.
"Chink cunt," he said softly. "Fucking yellow bitch."
Tina said nothing; she bowed her head. Erikson put his left hand under her chin and forced her face up again. With his right hand he slapped her cheek. The blow left a mark. He slapped her again.
"Slant-eyed, stinking cunt!" He slapped her a third time, and in a continuation of the motion grasped the neckline of the cheongsam and pulled. The gown split open down the front. He stared at her small, pointed breasts, then struck her across the face again. His voice was ragged now, his breathing short. "I killed you before and I'll kill you again. I killed a hundred like you ... a thousand."
"Yes," she said, and her own voice was weak. "Do it, Stanley. Kill me again."
He struck her one last time, and for the first time she screamed, the high voice echoing in the soundproofed room.
Then her right hand flashed out, the long nails extended. Carefully avoiding his face, the claw struck down and across his chest, leaving five red furrows. The left hand flashed and raked five more. Then she doubled over her tiny fist and hit him in the pit of the stomach. He staggered back from the blow. She hit him again, her eyes gleaming now, her breasts quivering as she swung. He fell on the bed, face up, and she lunged after him, ripping away the tatters of her dress. She jumped on him and straddled him with strong thighs.
"Wait," he gasped. "Wait. Don't."
He raised his hands to ward her off, but she brushed them aside and went to work on his face, slapping with hard, stinging blows. He whimpered. She slashed at his chest again, drawing more blood.
"Don't," he moaned. "Please don't. . . ."
Tina reached behind her and below: his cock was not quite erect. Stil
l straddling him, she raised herself up, leaned forward, and took his earlobe between her teeth. She bit down hard. Erikson screamed, arched his back and bucked upward, throwing her off him. He rolled over and onto her, grabbing her wrists as she struggled. Then the struggling ceased and the weight of him held her still. They lay like that, their faces touching, their breathing ragged, for what seemed like a very long time.
Then Tina said in a quiet voice, "John . . ." and they heard the whistle of the whip.
He felt the pain of the first stroke as an explosion between his buttocks. The whip sang again, and the pain climbed up his back. After the third stroke he felt the blood run over his scrotum and down his legs. He bit his lip to keep in the scream, and drove forward. Fully erect, he drove through Tina's thighs and found the wet opening. Once inside her, he looked up at Big John. The black man's eyes were calm and uncurious as he struck again. He too was fully erect. Erikson waited four more strokes; then through the pain he grunted, "Now, now."
He heard the clatter of the whip as it fell to the floor, heard the bedsprings squeak at the extra pressure, smelled the cinnamon scent of Big John, felt the weight of the body above him, and then the probing fingers as his cut and bleeding buttocks were spread. He screamed once more at the familiar, pleasing pain of penetration, and then the three of them were locked together, rocking in one rhythm, driving themselves and each other toward the goal that at first seemed so far away and then was so suddenly close, and closer, and then was upon them and into them, rising to explode as they all came together, two spurting, two receiving, and all of them gasping at the end.
Erikson slid out of Tina, limp. Within him he felt Big John's hardness stir. "That's enough," Erikson said in a different, calmer voice. The stirring stopped, and he felt the sad relief of withdrawal. He closed his eyes, resting his head on Tina's breast. He heard and felt the movements around him, and when he opened his eyes again the black man was gone. Alone with the girl, he wept silently, the salt of his tears running over her skin. The weeping afterward was part of it for him and had nothing to do with the pain. By the time he had showered once more and Tina had tended to his savaged flesh he was feeling fine again, telling the girl tales of Kowloon and Saigon, and making arrangements for another visit the following week.
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 12