Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “So you stuck it out on your own, huh?” he said. “You must be a loner.”

  “Like you?” Karen suggested.

  He didn’t answer. She saw the bright arc his cigarette made as he tossed it away.

  “Steven?”

  She saw his profile move in her direction.

  “Steven?” he said.

  “Isn’t that your name?” she asked, confused.

  He shrugged. “Everybody calls me Colter, sometimes Steve. No one has called me Steven since—” He stopped abruptly.

  “Since?” she prompted.

  “I was a kid,” he finished gruffly. “A long time ago.”

  “Do you mind if I do?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you look like a Steven to me. And I don’t want to call you what everyone else does. I want to be different.”

  “You already are,” he said huskily.

  “Steven,” she said firmly.

  “Yes?” he said brightly, like a contestant on a quiz show.

  She giggled. “I want to ask you something.”

  “Ask away.”

  Karen hesitated. She was intensely curious about how he’d gotten into his line of work but she’d already seen how he resisted personal questions. So she attacked the problem philosophically by saying, “Isn’t it difficult to risk your life all the time?”

  “Not if you haven’t much to lose,” he replied promptly.

  His answer, stated in that flat, matter-of-fact tone, chilled her. She could tell that his fatalism wasn’t a pose, but a reflection of deep inner conviction. She had never heard such resignation in anyone’s voice.

  “But surely you want to live?” she whispered.

  “Well, I don’t want to die,” he answered reasonably, but it was too late to negate the impression he’d already created. A warning signal went off in the most primitive part of her brain: this man was trouble. But with the contrary instincts that had frustrated her parents and driven her poor husband to distraction, she was intrigued rather than frightened.

  “Did you live in the U.S. until you got married?” Colter asked her, breaking the silence.

  “Yes, with an aunt, my mother’s sister,” she answered. Karen went on, filling him in about her background. She found that it was remarkably easy to talk to him, despite their unorthodox meeting and current unsettled circumstances. Or maybe that was the reason conversation was so relaxed. Stripped of the artificiality of social convention and still elated by her recent rescue, she told Colter things she would be embarrassed to recall in the morning. And in the deepest part of the night, suspended in time on the vast ocean, he listened. He was a good listener. He seemed content to smoke and stare up at the bowl of stars suspended overhead, asking an occasional quiet question. In a powerful, unspoken way Karen found his presence comforting. When toward dawn she finally drifted into sleep, she was completely comfortable and unafraid for the first time in a week.

  When the ship docked in Caracas, she was jolted awake. The lap robe fell to the floor as she stood. Sometime during the night Colter had left it folded carefully around her, tucked under her chin, and he’d added his fatigue jacket to combat the predawn chill. Wearing one of his garments and carrying the other, Karen went in search of him but he was nowhere to be found.

  The first thing she saw as the crew scurried through the docking procedure was the crowd of reporters waiting to meet the boat. She went below, where Linda seized her as she rounded the corner toward the dining room.

  “Where on earth have you been?” Linda whispered. “You were gone all night.”

  “I fell asleep in a deck chair.”

  “You fell asleep in a deck chair. Well, it may have escaped your notice, milady, but we are not arriving in Hamilton, Bermuda, and the Queen Mother’s equerry is not waiting to greet us. There is, however, a screaming mob of press people intending to pounce the minute we disembark.”

  “I saw them. What are we going to do?”

  “I know what I’m going to do. The embassy is sending over an escort to get us to a hotel in Caracas, and I will attach myself to them like the tail on Lady Astor’s horse. I suggest you do the same.”

  Linda had just finished speaking when the embassy people arrived. Two impeccably dressed Englishmen advised the group that there were cars waiting to take them into Caracas. They would be housed at the Hotel Miramar as guests of Her Majesty’s government. A formal statement would be issued that day, and a press conference held in the afternoon. They expressed deep regret for the “inconvenience” the refugees had suffered and hoped that they would be comfortable in their new accommodations.

  “I had bloody well better be comfortable, after all this,” Linda muttered to Karen. “Hang on—I want to see if one of them knows my father. I might be able to wangle a little something—one never can tell.”

  Karen stood in the middle of the bedraggled group and wondered where Colter was. She hadn’t seen any of the mercenaries since she’d awakened. She was attempting to comb her hair with her fingers when Linda returned, wearing a secretive smile.

  “What are you up to?” Karen asked knowingly. Linda handed her a laminated card.

  “An embassy chit,” she said. “Good at the hotel for food, clothing, whatever you like. Have a ball.”

  “You mean I just show this and any purchase will be charged to the embassy account?”

  “Right you are. Better than American Express. Who needs money, I say.”

  “Did you hear from your father?”

  “Oh, yes. He says stiff upper lip and all that. Something tells me my next job will be around the corner from his office in Berkely Street.”

  They were ushered up onto the deck of the boat into warm weather and a bright morning, then herded down the gangway toward the waiting vehicles.

  The reporters attacked as soon as they caught sight of the hostages. Karen turned her face away as they shouted questions and tried to shove microphones at anyone who passed. It was like running a gauntlet. She and Linda, along with two of the other women, collapsed into the back seat of the embassy’s stretch limousine gasping for breath. The driver took off almost before the doors had closed behind them.

  Karen’s first sight of downtown Caracas was a blur of old buildings and shiny new shops, narrow streets thronged with traffic, and dark handsome people bearing the marks of both Indian ancestry and the later Spanish settlement. They bypassed the impressive front entrance of the hotel, where more reporters were waiting, and pulled up to the service door at the back.

  “Good Lord, what a ghastly experience,” Linda said. “No wonder everyone hates the press. How on earth did they find out where we were and where we were going?”

  “Who knows?” Karen answered. “They always do.”

  They were led through the kitchen and up the service passage to the second floor, which had apparently been cleared for them.

  “I must arrive this way again,” Linda said, as they waited in a conference chamber at the end of the corridor to be assigned their rooms. “It always takes so long to register in a foreign hotel.”

  Finally they were given their keys, and a warning that if they wandered about the premises they would be easy targets for the press. She and Linda took adjoining rooms. Karen collapsed on the bed as soon as she had fastened the lock and pulled the shades to shut out the blinding equatorial sunlight.

  Her room, like the rest of the hotel, was ostentatiously over decorated. The curtains and the spread on her bed were a cabbage rose chintz, the red of which matched the wall-to-wall carpeting and the tasseled lamp shades. A gold and crystal chandelier overhead complemented a gold flecked fleur-de-lis wallpaper. She could see that the adjacent bathroom carried out the gold and red motif, with gold fixtures on the sink and tub and deep red plush towels. She expected Lily Langtry and Edward the Seventh to walk in at any moment and supposed that the bill presented to the British embassy would reflect the Regency decor.

  Her telephone rang and she didn’t know whet
her to answer it. She seized the receiver. If it were a reporter she could always hang up.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “My word,” Linda’s voice exclaimed, “what do you think of this place? A bit much, isn’t it?”

  “I guess it’s nice, if you like such an ornate style.”

  “Darling, it’s as dated as the Dave Clark Five. I’m sure it hasn’t been renovated since Jack the Ripper was on the prowl. Did you order from room service?”

  “I will later. I feel kind of tired. I couldn’t sleep last night and I think I’ll take a nap. Do you know when we’re going to be flying out of here?”

  “They’re supposed to come around and take ticket orders, ship us all back where we came from on the earliest plane. I was just told that many of the rebels are still at large, and the Government House has been closed indefinitely. I guess returning to Almeria will be out of the question for a while, maybe permanently.”

  Karen thought about that for a moment. It was difficult to realize that everything was changed: her home for the past five years, her job, her life.

  “Karen, you there?” Linda said.

  “Yes. Look, I’m going to sign off and get some rest. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Fine. Bye-bye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Karen hung up the phone and lay back on the bed, limp with exhaustion. She fell asleep in minutes. When she woke up late afternoon sun was seeping through the shades and slanting across her bed.

  There were two slips of paper under her door. They were cables, one from her sister and one from Ian, expressing concern about her captivity and relief that she was all right. Wire services had carried the news of the rescue and Grace said the story was on television constantly.

  Karen smiled to herself as she put the telegrams on the dressing table. This was the closest she would ever come to celebrity.

  There was a knock at her door.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  “Delivery for you, senorita,” an accented voice said in English.

  Karen opened the door to a uniformed bellboy who presented her with a huge wicker basket of pastel gladioli. The thing was almost bigger than she was.

  “Are you sure this is for me?” she asked the boy, who deposited the flowers on the carved writing desk in her room. He peeled off the yellow cellophane wrapping to expose the dewy blooms, then stood back to admire the effect.

  “Oh, yes,” the boy told her. “Senorita Walsh from the Almerian group, the order to our florist was very clear.” He handed her a small white card and made for the door.

  “Wait, oh, I haven’t any money,” she said, dismayed.

  “De nada, senorita, I already get,” the boy said mysteriously and left.

  Karen looked at the card, wondering what the bellboy “already got.”

  “Thanks for your help,” she read. “I’d like to take you to dinner to show my appreciation. I’ll be by for you at eight.” It was signed, “Colter.”

  Karen stared at the bold masculine handwriting, thinking that the delivery boy’s remark was now explained. Colter had tipped him in advance, which accounted for his solicitousness with the flowers, and now the mercenary was going to arrive for her in three hours.

  She had nothing to wear.

  Chapter 2

  Karen bolted into the corridor, pausing a moment to look up and down, but the lavishly appointed hallway was empty. She almost tripped over a gilt curio stand as she hurried to Linda’s door and knocked loudly.

  “Linda, are you in there? Open up, it’s Karen.”

  Linda flung open the door with a flourish, and then stared at Karen as the other woman flew past her and stopped, wide-eyed, in the middle of the room.

  “What is it?” Linda asked. “Nuclear war?”

  “I have a date in three hours,” Karen said breathlessly.

  “With whom?” Linda demanded. “That embassy person seems very nice but he is old enough to be your grandfather.”

  “With Steve Colter.”

  “The American who rescued us?” Linda said, instantly alert. “Where is he?” She eyed Karen as if she were concealing him in her shoe.

  “I don’t know where he is. He sent flowers to my room and said he would be by to pick me up at eight. What am I going to do?”

  “Well, the first thing you’re going to do is change out of those dreadful rags. You look like one of the pickpocket waifs in Oliver Twist.”

  “That’s the problem. This is all I have.”

  “You mean you haven’t been downstairs? There’s a lovely boutique and salon on the mezzanine.”

  For the first time Karen noticed that Linda’s blonde hair was freshly frosted and perfectly coiffed, her nails were done, and she was wearing a chic navy sheath, a definite post-captivity purchase. “I spent the afternoon sleeping,” Karen said.

  “Darling, who sleeps? I can see that my work is cut out for me with you. Come along, and bring that plastic golden goose I gave you. It’s time for a little shopping spree.” She took Karen by the hand and led her into the hall.

  “Do you think any reporters will bother us?” Karen asked as they descended in the thickly carpeted elevator.

  Samba music came from an overhead loudspeaker as Linda replied, “They tried with me today and I beat them off with a stick. I don’t think they’ll be back. They’re probably all at dinner, anyway.”

  Karen grinned suddenly as a thought struck her. “I just realized that a short time ago we were afraid of being shot at any minute, and now our biggest problem is buying me a dress.”

  “A sign of good mental health—not to worry. We’re recovering from an unspeakable experience and we need a distraction. Several of them, in fact. We’ll get you shoes, and a bag, and some makeup too.”

  They remembered Linda at the Miramar Boutique. Salesladies descended like locusts as they entered the shop, and Linda started issuing orders in staccato Spanish before Karen could open her mouth. Karen was whisked off to a mirrored booth while Linda went through the racks like a tornado, flinging silks and wool crepes and polished cottons about as the boutique employees tried to keep up with her. A tiny clerk named Maria arrived at the drawn curtain outside Karen’s cubicle with an armful of garments and said in hesitant English, “Your friend say to try these, senorita.”

  Karen looked at the price tags, which were marked in bolivares, pounds, and dollars, and almost fainted. The news was bad in all three currencies.

  She cleared her throat. “Maria,” she said calmly, “would you ask my friend to come and speak to me, please?”

  “Certainly, senorita.” Seconds later Linda’s head poked through the curtain.

  “What is it?” she said impatiently. “I’m busy.”

  “Linda, do you know how much these clothes cost?”

  “Of course, silly, I just bought mine here a few hours ago.”

  “Linda, these prices are outrageous. This blouse, for example, is two hundred dollars, or fifteen hundred bolivares, whichever makes the more staggering impression.”

  “And a very good value, too; that’s fine quality silk.”

  “Linda, I can’t charge this stuff to your embassy. It’s robbery!”

  Linda sniffed. “Don’t be absurd, the government can afford it. Do you know the kind of taxes we pay at home?”

  “That’s no excuse for taking such obscene advantage.”

  Linda fixed her with a frosty “we of the upper classes don’t discuss money” stare. “Do you want to look smashing, or not?” she asked.

  “Yes, but...”

  Linda held up a manicured hand. “But me no buts. You have two and one half hours left; now get cracking.”

  She disappeared and Karen sighed, thinking that Linda’s long history of nannies and lawn parties and public schools had left an indelible impression. Growing up in New Jersey just didn’t compare. Karen would always worry about the cost of everything while Linda considered it déclassé to even refer to it.

  “Here
you go,” Linda announced, shoving a black silk jersey dress through the curtained partition that separated them. “Just the thing. I’d like to catch his expression when he sees you in that. What size shoe do you wear?”

  “Six and a half, American.”

  “God knows what that means here; you’ll just have to try them on,” Linda muttered and hurried off again.

  The silk jersey dress was stunning. It clung to Karen’s curves in all the right places, with an overskirt that flared at the hips and a deep scooped neckline that showed off her light summer tan. One glance and Karen knew that she had to have it.

  She walked out of the cubicle and turned in front of the three way mirror on the floor. The salespeople murmured appreciatively.

  “What did I tell you?” Linda said triumphantly behind her. “Now for the shoes. Put these on.”

  Linda handed her a pair of black peau de soie sandals with three inch heels.

  “I don’t know,” Karen said doubtfully, looking at them.

  Linda sighed dramatically. “What is the matter with you?” she said irritably. “You can’t be worried about dwarfing him; the man is the size of a great sequoia. If I had your legs I’d go jogging in shoes like those.”

  “I doubt it,” Karen said dryly. “I just think they’re impractical.”

  “Of course they’re impractical—that’s the whole idea.” She put her hands on Karen’s shoulders and turned her around. “Look,” she said. “When was the last time you had a dinner engagement with such a gorgeous, fascinating man?”

  Karen didn’t have to think long. “Never.”

  Linda extended her hands, palms up, in an I-rest-my-case gesture. “Then why are we having this conversation? If he’d asked me to dinner I wouldn’t be standing about nattering, frittering away precious time—that I can tell you. But unfortunately he didn’t send ME flowers, or invite ME to dinner. I will probably spend the evening doing the Times crossword puzzle and watching reruns of ‘The Avengers’ dubbed in Spanish. Now will you please stop trying my rapidly dwindling patience and take the damned shoes?”

  “Okay,” Karen said, laughing.

  “Good, now that’s settled. On to the undies and the makeup.”