The Devil to Pay

by Harold Robbins

  Snake slipped in, closing the door behind him.

  “Did anyone see you come up?”

  He shook his head. “You think I would let Celestial Gate see me?”

  “Not if you expect to live.”

  “If I am to die in the war, many will go with me.”

  The “war” Snake mentioned was a turf battle. Triad gangs operated openly in Hong Kong, and had existed since time immemorial in Shanghai, but kept a low profile in the city because of the tight communist controls over the past decades. As Shanghai moved into the free market and controls loosened, Hong Kong’s notorious 24 Karat black society pushed into the city from the British colony, igniting conflict with the long-established Shanghai triad, the Protectors of the Celestial Gate.

  “Give me my money,” Lily Soong said.

  “When the job is done.”

  She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

  He hesitated but pulled out a wad of bills and gave them to her. “Have patience; maybe you will get even more.”

  She smiled coyly at him. “How do I know that the foreigner won’t kill you instead?’

  Snake grinned and scoffed. “The Master of the Mountain knows who he sends. I am the best.”

  The Master of the Mountain was the head of a triad organization, a position akin to a “don” who headed a mafia family. The triad title came from the days when the black societies gathered on hilltops for their secret meetings.

  “Do you plan to tell the foreigner why he’s being killed?”

  He snickered. “I will tell his ghost that he did business with the wrong people.”

  She wore an almost sheer nightgown. Her nude form was visible beneath the silk.

  “You’re the one with the bald eagle,” he said. “When the job is done, will you let me see it?”

  “Maybe. You have money?”

  “Plenty of money.”

  “Why not now? They will call me when he starts up.”

  She went to a stuffed couch next to draped windows. The heavy drapes were pulled shut. She sat on an arm of the couch and pulled the gown up to her knees.

  “Get down, here.” She indicated the floor in front of her.

  He knelt down on the floor. She slowly pulled up the gown. He watched, his eyes widening, his lips parting, as she exposed her naked thighs. She let him linger for a moment before she inched the silk up until he could see the V between her legs. He stared, unmoving, as she slowly lifted the gown and spread her legs.

  His breathing stilled. He had seen a bare pubis before, but only on prepubescent girls. On a grown woman, it was not natural nakedness, but mesmerizing and erotic. She was a woman of legend, not one of the street whores he was used to paying for false cries of ecstasy and wonderment at his manhood.

  Her jasmine scent filled his nostrils and clouded his thinking.

  She put her hands behind his head and brought his head forward, lifting her legs up and spreading them wider. She pulled his head hard against her.

  His lips opened and his tongue came out and slipped between the pink lips of her vulva.

  The curtain behind him parted and a man stepped out and used two hands to plunge a long knife into the base of Snake’s neck, severing his spinal cord.

  The triad killer flopped over and rolled for a moment, gasping and jerking. His eyes went up in his head and he twitched convulsively.

  The foreigner stared at Lily Soong, the bloody knife in his hand.

  His hand was shaking. He wasn’t used to killing.

  COLOMBIA

  TRAVEL WARNING

  United States Department of State

  This travel warning is being issued to remind American citizens of ongoing security concerns in Colombia, continues to warn against travel to Colombia, and notes a continuing threat.

  Violence by narco-terrorist groups and other elements continues to affect all parts of the country.

  American kidnap or murder victims have included journalists, missionaries, scientists, human rights workers, businesspeople, as well as persons on tourism or family visits.

  No one can be considered immune.

  Since it is U.S. policy not to make concessions to, or strike deals with, terrorists and criminals, the U.S. government’s ability to assist kidnapped U.S. citizens is severely limited.

  8

  I got off the plane in San Francisco and looked at the monitors for the first flight scheduled for anywhere south of the border. It was a chartered flight to Cancun, Mexico’s Caribbean coast party town.

  A big map on a wall told me that Cancun was a hop, skip, and a jump to Colombia, with Central America and some water in between. The best thing about a flight to Cancun was that the plane was taking off shortly and the destination was out of the country and in the same general direction as Colombia.

  The flight was already boarding as I hurried up to the ticket counter.

  “Mr. Sully, that gentleman in the blue blazer, is the charter’s flight manager,” the counter clerk said. “You have to get his permission to buy a ticket if you don’t already have a reservation.”

  Mr. Sully was a middle-aged man with gray slacks and white tasseled loafers to go with his blue blazer. I wondered if he was a lawyer in real life.

  I introduced myself and asked if I could buy a ticket on the flight.

  “Another last-minute friend?” he asked.

  I didn’t know whose friend I could be, but I tried to look apologetic. “I’m sorry, it was a last-minute decision.”

  “All right, but you understand, you have to abide by our society’s rules or we’ll have to enforce sanctions.”

  I murmured my assent and hurried to get a ticket. I didn’t know what the rules were, some sort of religious thing, probably, but at the moment, I’d make a deal with the devil herself to get on the plane.

  As I surrendered my boarding pass at the gate, I saw a sign for the flight: Mimesis Society, The Oneness of Us and Nature.

  I thought I’d heard of the group before. An organization for smart people, as I recalled. I had a friend in college that joined it.

  The plane was mid-sized, with three seats on one side and two on the side I was on. I had the window seat next to a man in his early thirties. Attractive, with an ebony complexion and short-cropped hair revealing an African-American heritage, he looked more athletic and outdoorsy than cerebral. He smiled and got up to let me slip into my seat.

  I sighed with relief and closed my eyes as soon as we rolled away from the gate. Adios, Seattle police! Mexico, here I come!

  “I was told we won’t be able to start until we’ve leveled off and the seat-belt sign goes off,” my companion said. “This is my first time. Have you attended many of the events?”

  “Uh, no, my first, too.”

  “Apparently we have to use some discretion in Cancun; the Mexicans aren’t as open about these things as other places in the Caribbean.”

  “Hmmm.” An inane listening response was the best I could muster. I couldn’t imagine what Mexicans could have against a group of visiting geniuses. You’d think as a spring break Mecca, Cancun would tolerate anything, with the rather conservative-looking thirty-to-fifty crowd in the plane topping the list of visitors the city would love to attract.

  Rushing from one plane and onto another, I hadn’t had a chance to visit the restroom before we took off. As soon as the plane was leveling off, I got up and went to the rear. I smiled at the cute blond flight attendant who stood to the side to let me pass. He had dimples that made him look younger than the early twenties I guessed his age to be. I automatically wondered if he was gay. At my age, I had a fatalistic attitude that anyone that good-looking was probably gay. Or married. Or both.

  I did my business in the restroom. I heard the seat-belt sign signal go off as I was washing up. I wondered what my seat companion had meant when he said they couldn’t start until the seat-belt sign went off. I hoped they weren’t going to engage in some kind of intellectual game that took a rocket scientist to play. I
t was hard enough for me to look intelligent without trying to act like it.

  I stepped out of the cubbyhole restroom and almost into the arms of a naked man. Involuntarily, my eyes immediately went to his male part.

  I had just enough composure to freeze in place and not scream, but I couldn’t keep my jaw from dropping.

  “Excuse me.” He stepped around me to get into the restroom.

  My feet stayed rooted in place as I rotated my head and stared down the aisle.

  People were shedding their clothes—or had shed their clothes. They were in the aisles or kneeling on their seats, pulling off tops and bottoms. All layers. Men and women. Old and young. Fat and skinny. Black, white, yellow, brown, and shades in between.

  The world was full of all types and all types were on the plane—in the flesh.

  I thought about retreating to another toilet stall, but I’d look suspicious if I stayed there for the next few hours.

  Taking a deep breath, keeping chin up and eyes straight ahead—as much as I could—I forced one foot in front of the other and proceeded down the plane aisle. It was impossible not to brush by bare flesh, some pumped, some sagging, as I went. I automatically murmured apologies.

  My seat was halfway down the plane and it was the longest walk I’d ever taken.

  Panic was rising in me. I had to make a decision. What the hell was I to do? These people were all insane nudist sex fiends; I didn’t know yet what exactly they were, but I wanted no part of whatever game they were playing. We were at thirty-eight thousand feet. Dashing out the nearest exit was not an option, nor ignoring the fact that I was going to be the only person on the plane wearing clothes.

  What had the charter manager said back at the airport? Something about sanctions if I didn’t abide by the society’s rules; I didn’t know what he meant by that, but the last thing I needed was to draw attention to myself. And this was one time I couldn’t hide behind my quick wits—or my clothes.

  I paused by my seat neighbor. He was naked but was reading a magazine that covered his lap.

  “Did you want to get undressed before you sat down?” he asked.

  Not in front of a couple hundred people.

  “I prefer being seated. Might get turbulence.”

  He got up and let me pass. I tried to keep my eyes straight, but they involuntarily glanced down as I went to my seat.

  He was an adequate male. Thank God he wasn’t aroused. I would have turned purple with embarrassment.

  I started to put on my seat belt and he said, “You must really be afraid of turbulence.”

  I gave him a blank look.

  “I’ve never heard of anyone taking off their clothes with their seat belt on.”

  Shit. I was drawing attention to myself. “Sorry, I’m not thinking; I’ve got a migraine.”

  I slowly unbuttoned my blouse and slipped it off. I folded it and left it in my lap. Next was a little cotton pullover. That came off. I folded it and put it on the pile I was starting on my lap. I glanced sideways at him. I was now exposing my pink bra, but he was still intent upon his magazine.

  It was time to take off my pants. I had on blue jeans, the type you paid $150 for at a boutique when you can get them for $30 at a discount store. I slipped off my shoes and slowly pulled off my pants. I added the pants to the stack in my lap.

  In pink panties and bra, I glanced sideways at him.

  He had put away the magazine but didn’t seem the least bit interested in the fact there was an attractive woman—me!—almost naked beside him.

  I looked up as the cute blond flight attendant went by. He smiled at me. “Better hurry; Mr. Sully wants everyone ready when we start our breathing and flex exercises.”

  Oh great, breathing and flex. Breathing I knew, but what the hell was flex? I hoped the hell we weren’t going to take turns standing up in the aisle and flexing the muscles in our tushes.

  It was time to give up the ghost. Smothering a little groan of modesty, or more accurately a lack of confidence that my naked form would compare favorably when stacked up—literally—against women who were buffed in more places than I could afford to augment surgically, I took off my bra.

  I snuck a sideways glance at the attractive male beside me. Not a peek, sneaking or otherwise, from the stud.

  What the hell? How could this man just sit there with his head in a magazine when I was letting it all hang out?

  I was now down to basics. Bare boobs and dangling male parts were parading up and down the aisle as people walked and talked little differently than if they were at a cocktail party or barbecue after church. But I still dreaded the idea of being completely naked. It wasn’t so much that I was a prude; I was just modest … embarrassed … not happy with my figure. All those things any woman who didn’t spend every day at the gym and on the current diet rage would feel. And I’d feel the same way if I had the body of a supermodel.

  But there was nothing I could do; whining wouldn’t help. Get on with it or draw attention—and sanctions—to myself.

  Besides, when in Rome …

  I took off my panties.

  Mr. Stud looked up from his magazine.

  “Want me to put those in the overhead?” he asked. He was talking about the pile of clothes I was hiding behind.

  Wow! What willpower—or lack of interest? He met me eye-to-eye, not straying to check out my naked breasts or pubic mound.

  Every time I looked at him, my eyes went out of control and involuntarily dipped down to his midsection, but his eyes never strayed.

  I’d heard that people at nudist colonies didn’t walk around aroused—the men, I mean. That made sense. It would be awfully impolite if a man was talking to another man’s wife and his thing suddenly started erupting. That wouldn’t do, would it?

  Maybe to this guy next to me having a naked woman beside him was like handling money in a bank. After a while, the millions of dollars bank tellers handle had to be just so much green paper, right? If they thought of it as money, as a new car, a nicer home, a Caribbean cruise … most bank robberies would be inside jobs.

  That helped assuage my fragile ego. I was actually enjoying the freedom of no clothes, sipping a glass of wine, and talking to my companion—whose eyes never strayed to my breasts—when a question popped into my head. His name was Will and he turned out to be a computer executive from Phoenix.

  “I forget—what do you call that organization of people who think they’re smart?”

  “Mensa?”

  Yes, that was it; I just had the spelling a little wrong. At least the anxiety was over—I now knew what the people were up to on the plane and it was just some innocent nudism. No daisy chains or other group sex was parading up and down the aisle. People had a glass of wine or a beer and were into talking about the last nudist beach they’d hung out at.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes. I was relaxed from the wine and from being a thousand miles and thirty-eight thousand feet from U.S. jurisdiction when my eyes involuntarily strayed open and I noticed that Will’s male organ had suddenly come alive.

  It was going up … up … up.… Swollen. Engorged. Raising like the Graf Zeppelin. Inflated like a condom blown up with a party store helium tank. Pulsating—angry, eager, anxious.

  Oh my God. He had finally noticed me.

  Pleased with myself, a little giddy from wine and my escape from the police, I started to lean a little closer to let him know I was interested when I realized he was staring intently down the aisle.

  The cute flight attendant had dropped something. He was bending over, his tush pointed back at us.

  He even had dimples on his buns.

  9

  I was feeling very drowsy and tired, probably because I had gotten little sleep the night before and then caught an early flight out of Seattle that morning.

  Or maybe it was drinking a glass of red wine with little food in my stomach. I normally didn’t care for red wine. Everyone was saying it was healthy, but sometimes the stuff gave me a head
ache. I also found it too heavy for me. I preferred a dry white wine, like a pinot grigio or sauvignon blanc, even when I was eating a meal that called for red wine.

  For some reason today I had a craving for red wine. Lots of people on the plane were drinking it and Will was working on his second glass. I wasn’t much of a wine connoisseur. Having worked in the business, I knew a lot about wines, but I drank what I liked rather than what a sommelier said I was supposed to drink. And sometimes I was guilty of buying a brand just because I liked the label. But watching Will enjoy the red wine, I suddenly had a strong desire to have a glass. Maybe it was a sexual thing. When I looked at the dark red color, it reminded me of passion … love … romance.…

  I could barely keep my eyelids open.

  I looked over to Will. “I’m taking a little nap. Don’t wake me up for the food.”

  Like anyone with taste buds, I didn’t care for airline food. I usually passed it up whenever I flew, because more often than not the food was terrible. Once in a while I had their egg omelet and sometimes even that was uneatable. Normally I ate something before the flight. This morning I barely had time to throw some protein bars in my purse.

  The flight attendant had come by again and Will’s lascivious gaze locked back on the guy’s rear dimples. Will didn’t even bother looking at me when he said, “Okay.”

  “Would you grab me a pillow from overhead?” I asked, breaking his concentration. “And a blanket,” I added. “I feel a bit chilly.”

  “Sure.”

  Even though I was getting used to sitting next to Will with both of us naked, I still didn’t feel comfortable with exposing my naked body to total strangers. Shedding my clothes for a guy was one thing, but parading around for the whole world to see was something else. Plus, in the back of my mind, I kept having this recurring thought of how many germs were lurking on the airline seat. When he stood up and faced me, his penis stood straight up.

  His erections had killed my theory about nudists never getting aroused. This time I barely glanced at it. Like handling money in a bank—once a guy lets me know that I’m the wrong gender, I lose interest.