Tina marked the date on her calendar while she smiled dutifully at the stories. She had heard them all before, and her mind was occupied with thoughts of her next appointment.
After Erikson had left she bathed, put on fresh scent, and dressed herself in another cheongsam. Then she checked the calendar book again: Baron and Baroness Zitowsky. She said the name over several times to be sure she had the pronunciation correct, and had time for no more than a puff on a cigarette before the doorbell rang.
The Zitowskys were an impressive couple, even to someone like Tina whose clientele included a sizable portion of the Washington diplomatic corps. The baron was not only well built, but witty and urbane, while the baroness possessed the full-fleshed form of beauty that the slimly built Chinese girl adored in other women. Impressive was the word for the Zitowskys, and an hour later she was even more impressed as the three of them lay relaxed and intertwined on the king-sized bed, their bodies totally drained. Tina was the first to move, stirring in the baron's arms, reaching down to caress the head of the baroness between her thighs.
"Lucky me," she murmured. "Three times in an hour. That usually doesn't happen three times in a month."
The baron propped himself up on an elbow to look at her. "Is having an orgasm considered unprofessional?"
She shrugged. "It just doesn't happen. I give pleasure. I rarely get it. I don't often meet people like you."
"I'll bet you say that to all the boys."
"And girls," said the baroness, looking up from between Tina's thighs. In one lithe movement she slipped out from under and came up the bed to lie next to the other girl. She nuzzled a breast on the way, nipped at soft shoulder flesh, and said, laughing, "In that case you can give us a discount."
Tina laughed, leaned over, and kissed her lips lightly. "I'm the one who should be paying."
"Now that," said the baron, "would be unprofessional." He pressed closer to her, and she could feel his hardness beginning again. On the other side the baroness did the same, pressing softness on softness.
Tina looked from one to the other. "I have another appointment soon, but I could call and break it."
"Wouldn't think of it," said the baron. "Unprofessional again."
Tina Lee smiled. "No extra charge."
The baroness kissed her tenderly. "You have a living to make. And we really have to go."
Tina looked at her dejectedly. Inside her, all the last shreds of professionalism were gone, but she knew enough not to press them to stay. "Well, you know my telephone number."
"We'll call," the baron assured her. "Perhaps next week."
"Wonderful." Tina Lee almost clapped her hands in delight. "We'll make a party out of it, do something special. Is there anything special you like?"
The baron was quiet for a thougntful moment, then said, almost reluctantly, "Well—there is something. I hesitate to shock you . . ."
"The last time I was shocked was when it snowed in July."
The baron told her carefully and in detail what he wanted to do. She listened, frowning slightly, but nodding as he spoke. When he was. finished, she said, "That doesn't sound terribly shocking. It sounds like fun."
The baron sighed. "And I thought I was being so decadent."
The baroness hugged the Chinese girl. "Do you think it can be arranged?"
Tina pretended to think, but she had already made up her mind. "I think I know just the man. I'll have to ... do some shuffling around, but . . . yes, I can do it."
"Oh, lovely. When?"
"How about a week from today? About three in the afternoon? I'll have to charge you more than—"
"Please," the baron said. "That's not a problem."
"You're a darling," said the baroness, and the baron smiled his agreement.
The baron and the baroness were not the only ones who thought of Tina Lee as a darling. To Red Erikson, as he strode up Constitution Avenue one week later, she was not only a darling, but the wise and wonderful woman who understood so well the demons that rode him. And right now the demons were riding hard. Score another one for Mr. Henry H. Bedney, with his Thom McAn shoes and his button-down drip-dry shirt with the pocket full of fifty-nine-cent Bics. Two more hours of probing questions with that toadlike tongue flicking out to lick the pencil point, those puffy eyes that could spot an error in a column of figures at twenty paces, and that whining, insistent voice.
"Well, sir, unless you can substantiate these figures—and frankly, 1 don't think you can—it looks to me as if you're going to wind up owing Uncle a pretty penny. Yes indeed, a tidy sum when you come to include the interest and penalty."
God damn the man. Owing Uncle? How about what Uncle owes me? Over twenty years of active service and 1 wind up getting pushed around by Mr. Henry H. Punk who never stepped on an ant in his life, gets his kicks out of terrorizing helpless taxpayers. Christ, but I'd love to waltz him around a little, just to set him straight. See this hand, Henry H.? I kill with that hand. See this boot? I kill with that, too. See this finger? I use it to pluck out eyeballs. I kill, Mr. Henry H. I kill our country's enemies so that assholes like you can sit behind your plastic desks and intimidate loyal Americans. That's my job—I kill, and I get paid for it, and not the lousy eighteen grand that they put on the record. Three times that much, Mr. Henry H. Taxman, and if you think I'm going to pay tax on the cash you're out of your tree. That's part of the perks, Mr. Taxman, part of the bonus for putting my ass on the line day after day for twenty years, and if you think any different maybe you and I, we'd better have ourselves a little session in the Bamboo Room. Ever heard of the Bamboo Room, Henry? No, the walls aren't made of bamboo, but they've got lots of lovely slivers of the stuff, all shapes and sizes guaranteed to fit under fingernails, into nostrils and ears and anuses, and any other opening available. Yeah, you'd just love the Bamboo Room, Henry. I could waltz you around all day in there.
Blood pumping, heels clicking, sweat pouring, he charged up Constitution Avenue toward the only center of sanity he knew, the thoughts of Tina cooling him and spreading calm. Through the glass doors and up in the elevator like a camel racing for the waterhole, his shaking finger pressing on the bell, and then she was there in the flowered cheongsam and everything was turned around and right, all right for now and for later. Just right.
"Stanley," she murmured. "How nice."
"Christ Jesus," he said, his voice a croak. "Thank God for you."
"Come in, come in. You look so hot, and I have a surprise for you."
First the ritual of the flailing shower, the massive glass of Bombay gin and ice, and then she led him toward the bedroom, her quick fingers already working at the towel around his waist. As they crossed the threshold, she said, "And this is my surprise. Isn't he lovely? We're going to call him the baron."
Erikson turned on her. "Where's Big John?"
"I'm sorry, dear, but he couldn't make it today. I'm sure you'll find the baron a happy substitute."
"A white man?"
"Really, Stanley, does it always have to be black? There are white men with big cocks, too."
Erikson glanced across the room. The baron stood in the classic position, arms crossed over his chest, the whip clenched tightly, the mask in place. He was older than the usual stud, but his body was still good, and the girl was right about his being well hung.
"Besides," said Tina, "he's a genuine Polish baron."
Erikson wasn't listening to her. He growled, "Take the mask off."
The baron lifted the mask to reveal his face. Erikson studied him carefully. The face reflected only an incurious lust. Satisfied, Erikson signaled to replace the mask, and turned to Tina.
"He knows what to do?"
She nodded. She had already assumed the passive position, chin lowered and her eyes cast downward.
"You fucked it up," he said flatly. "I wanted the nigger and you fucked it up, you dumb Chink cunt."
Then without any further preliminary he struck her across the face, knocked her
to the bed, and was at once caught up in the familiar cycle of pain and pleasure, blow and counterblow, smack of flesh on flesh, that filled him with a savage joy pressing on the bubble of his manhood, increasing the pressure, expanding the bubble and the pain until the pain was all of him stretched to the breaking point, stretching and entering the girl beneath him.
He waited for the whip, but it did not come. He twisted his neck to look up. The baron stood over him. Only his eyes showed over the mask, and they seemed so soft and gentle for the role he was playing.
Erikson gasped, "Now."
Beneath him, Tina said quietly, "The whip."
"As you wish," said the baron with a sigh, and struck.
Erikson screamed, then Tina. They both screamed at the second blow, and the third. After that there was no more screaming.
Erikson felt the touch of the whip as a dull and painless thud on his flesh, and even then was startled by the strangeness of the feeling. He tried to cry out, but he had no voice, no breath. Beneath him, Tina's skin was cold on his, her eyes were glazed, and her mouth was frozen in a rictus of fear. He felt an unendurable cold invading his body, starting at the loins and spreading upward. He fought to breathe, felt his eyes flood with blood, and in the final moment before terror overtook him completely had time to wonder at what had gone wrong. It was wrong, all wrong to happen like this. The machine had said so, and the machine never lied. The CYBER said Romeo. The CYBER said the spick was next. CYBER said. CYBER said ... and in the flash of light before the ultimate darkness he knew what had happened.
Vasily sighed, stripped off the mask, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. Behind him he heard the sound of the closet door opening, and then Chalice was beside him and staring down at the scene on the bed. Her face was calm, but her bare body was covered with a film of sweat.
"What did you use?" she asked softly.
"A mixture. Hydrogen cyanide and rattlesnake venom. Very effective."
"Good God." She looked at the bodies.
"One more down. Three more to go."
"One?" Chalice's eyes widened. "You're not counting the girl."
"The girl was a civilian. Civilians get killed in wars. Bombs drop on innocent towns. It happens."
"I liked her, Vasily."
"You hardly seem to be mourning her." Then, pushed by curiosity, he asked, "How do you feel?"
"About Tina?"
"About all of it."
She would not look at him, and her answer was faint. "Sad, I suppose, but there's more than that. There's a joy in it, too. Do you know what I mean?"
"I know only that they're dead."
"Then we're different. There's always been a joy in it for me. A completion. A fulfillment. Like watching a lovely sunset. The sun goes down, but it comes up again the next morning. Always."
She turned to face him now, and he saw that her nipples were erect and her hands were clenched at her hips, as if to keep them from straying.
"The hell with your sunsets," he said. "You're excited."
"Of course I am. That's why I wanted to watch."
"And do you feel completed? Are you fulfilled?"
"Not the way you mean."
"And am I supposed to remedy that? Am I supposed to make love to you now with two dead people in the room?"
With the hint of a smile, she said, "I had a little something like that in mind."
Without moving the rest of his body, he reached out and slapped her sharply across the face. She flushed, bit her lip, but she did not cry out. In a low voice, she asked, "What was that for?"
"I have dealt in death for many years. I have learned to respect it. I suggest that you do, too."
She nodded as if in agreement, but he saw that his words had been meaningless to her. He leaned over and kissed the cheek he had slapped.
"Get dressed," he said. "There will be plenty of time for that later."
11
On a chilly April morning after the death of Nedya Suvarova, the four remaining members of the Five Group met in the office of Colonel Fist at the dacha in Zhukovka. Four men met, but only three took active part in the discussion around the desk in the colonel's office. The fourth, Pyotr Suvarov, sat apart from the others in a deep armchair, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed uncontrollably. He had been sobbing that way for twenty-four hours, since the news of the death of his wife. He had not slept in that time. The unit doctor had tried to sedate him, and the other members had plied him with vodka and cognac, but to no effect. Sleep had not come to him, and now, totally exhausted in his grief, he sat and sobbed.
The gasping sobs were an irritant to Colonel Fist. He frowned at the sound of them, and shook his head as if to clear it. Major Marchenko cleared his throat sympathetically. Captain Durin stared straight ahead, unsmiling but with a hint of hidden amusement about his lips. The colonel tapped his pencil on the desk.
"Let us see if we can arrive at a consensus. Does either of you believe that Nedya Ivanova's death was accidental?"
Marchenko started to speak, but the colonel interrupted him. "No, follow procedure. Juniors first. Durin?"
Igor Durin said hesitantly, "If the colonel pleases, Captain Suvarov is actually junior to me."
"Very well." The colonel hauled himself to his feet and went over to the armchair where Suvarov sat, his face hidden in his hands. "Pyotr, you heard the question. What is your opinion?"
Suvarov did not answer. His sobbing grew softer, but he was unable to speak.
"Captain." The colonel's voice was sharp. "I asked you a question."
Suvarov looked up. His eyes and nose were red, and his face was streaked. "Colonel, forgive me," he whimpered. "I can't believe it. I cannot accept it. She's gone."
"You have our deepest sympathy. Nedya Ivanova is dead, but you are alive, Pyotr, and I have asked you a question."
"You don't understand. She was everything to me." He buried his face again. "She was the center of my life."
The colonel's hand shot out, gripped Suvarov's thin, graying hair, and yanked his head up. "I am the center of your life. And then this group, and then the service, and then the Party, and then the Soviet state. Now, answer me."
"I cannot help myself," Suvarov sobbed. "I beg you to understand."
"Control yourself." The colonel released his hold and returned to his desk. "You see how he is. His opinion is meaningless. Durin, proceed."
"Yes, sir." Durin studied his glossy fingernails for a moment, buffed them once on his sleeve, and asked deferentially, "May I inquire about the computer, sir? What conclusion has CYBER come to?"
"You take no chances," the colonel said wryly. "Very well, you're entitled to know. The machine's report is negative. It calls the death of Nedya Ivanova an accident. Definitely not the work of Vasily Borgneff. In fact, its latest projection shows that Borgneff s next logical target would be Major Marchenko, not Captain Suvarov."
Durin shrugged. "In that case, I must agree. An accident."
Colonel Fist grunted. "Very daring of you. Marchenko, what do you think?"
The handsome major shifted his athletic body in the chair and cleared his throat again. "The CYBER is a machine—an unusual machine in that, theoretically, it does not make mistakes. Therefore, naturally, I respect its judgment." He paused thoughtfully. "But I am not a machine. I am a man over forty years of age, and I have not lived as long as I have by believing in coincidences or accidents."
"Then you consider this as part of an attack by Borgneff?"
Marchenko looked unblinkingly out of his cool blue eyes. "Every instinct that I have rejects the concept of coincidence.
Every instinct tells me that the intended victim in this mushroom business was Suvarov, not his wife. However, I must say in all seriousness that if Vasily Borgneff were within fifty kilometers of Moscow, I, of all people, would know of it."
The colonel looked at him with interest. " You, of all people?"
"Ivan Nikolaevich, you are the respected leader
of this organization. But I am the one in daily operational control. Everything flows through my hands. Everything. Every entry point is under surveillance. A thousand men, women, and children are looking for him. I repeat: If Borgneff were here, I would know. And he isn't."
The colonel leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "I thank you both for your opinions. I myself am caught between the two of you. CYBER does not make mistakes, that much we know—or at least, believe. But like you, Major, I do not believe in coincidences. Somehow Borgneff has done this. When he learns that he has failed, he will try again. We must be ready for him."
The colonel rose and went back to where Suvarov sat, standing over the sobbing officer. He looked down at him with distaste. "Amazing," he muttered. "When I think of the things I have seen this man do. And now, because of one woman, a wreck."
Gently, very gently, the colonel put a hand under Suvarov's chin and raised the blotched face. He gazed into the red-rimmed eyes, and said in a lower, mellower voice, "Pyotr, we all know what you are going through. We all sympathize."
Suvarov nodded dumbly.
"Nedya Ivanova was a magnificent woman. She was not only a Heroine of the Soviet Union, she was a heroine to us all."
"She was the only woman who ever comforted me."
The colonel controlled his distaste; his voice remained mellow. "Because of the great respect we all had for her, I want you to know that her death will not go unacknowledged. Too often the members of our service go unmourned to their graves. It is the nature of our profession—security demands it, but not this time. Your wife will be mourned, I assure you. I propose to have a state funeral held for her in the hall of the Ministry of Justice. What do you think of that?"
Marchenko and Durin looked at each other in surprise. Suva- rov grasped the colonel's hand; he looked as if he might kiss it, but thought better of the idea. "I thank you, sir," he said. "I thank you deeply. Not for myself, but for poor Nedya."
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 13