Kisses From Satan

by George B Mair

  KISSES FROM SATAN

  George B. Mair

  © George B. Mair 1966

  George B. Mair has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1966 by Jarrolds Publishers (London) Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  This book is dedicated with affection to the Reverend John MacKelvie of Greenock, to his wife our good friend Marion, and to my Godchild little Marion whose smile lightens many lives.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One – ‘Give me another five years.’

  Chapter Two – ‘A question of who gets in first.’

  Chapter Three – ‘Grant has become my immediate top priority.’

  Chapter Four – ‘She might even have to be removed.’

  Chapter Five – ‘That was the longest two hours I’ve ever known.’

  Chapter Six – ‘Very safe. Very effective.’

  Chapter Seven – ‘Between them they had stolen an hour.’

  Chapter Eight – ‘This thing has become personal.’

  Chapter Nine – ‘Tell Satan you had it comin’ to you.’

  Chapter Ten – ‘. . . to leave a bad bad memory.’

  Chapter Eleven – ‘He is very much awake.’

  Chapter Twelve – ‘Be very careful when we meet again.’

  Chapter Thirteen – ‘. . . The man who collected dirt.’

  Chapter Fourteen – ‘Ring of black water.’

  Chapter One – ‘Give me another five years.’

  The woman sprawled on a lilo mattress beside the swimming pool. Her chin was cradled on her elbow and her eyes stared unwinkingly across a sweep of green lawn to the side entrance of a house.

  Wisps of ebony black hair curled around the deep tan of her shoulders, and the long sweep of thighs ran into calf muscles which twitched slightly as a wasp alighted for a second and lay like a golden dart against smooth flesh. Its wings quivered restlessly as he felt her move and then he took off with a snarl towards the three-metre high wall which surrounded more than two hectares of garden.

  She smiled as she watched the creature dart past her fingers and rise into the breeze, its deep throated buzzing reminding her of the strings in an orchestra and of that tense moment in the wings before she herself wafted on to the stage.

  She glanced towards the heavy towel which lay on the grass beside a polka dot monokini. The temperature had dropped a point or two, but the breeze was still gentle and she wanted an all-over tan. It was still too warm for clothes and she was too lazy to read.

  She rolled on to her back and stretched herself lazily, her arms thrusting above her head to point her breasts and narrow her slim belly until she looked like an arrow, a tawny arrow poised to strike. Her face was like a mask, expressionless as she measured the sense of her own power and felt once more that awareness of body which always came when her man was expected.

  She glanced at her watch. Three-fifteen. But still time for one last cigarette before dressing. Her heart was racing and again she felt that same taut feeling which she also knew in the theatre when the hum of conversation suddenly whispered to nothing and the conductor lifted his baton. A sheet of bougainvillea covered the wall in front and she could hear the surge of waves beyond. The sky was indigo blue and behind her she knew there were the tops of mountains still touched with snow.

  She puffed restlessly at her Benson and Hedges. It seemed absurd that she could afford to rent a place like this only two years after leaving Russia as a suspicious person wanted for harbouring a dangerous spy. Two years of success! But she could not forget that it was success first born in Moscow’s Bolshoi. And part of her heart was still in Russia. She wondered if she would ever dance there again. And then she realised how stupid the question was. Even with the present ‘new look’ Moscow had a long memory. She would never be forgiven for helping the only man she had ever wished to marry.

  There was the soft click of an opening door and she saw her maid walk across the lawn. She was carrying a dressing case and wearing a blue and white striped skirt below a tangerine blouse. The girl stopped beside her and smiled. ‘Madame will have massage today?’

  Maya hesitated. And then she nodded. There was still time, and if he arrived early what did it matter? She turned again on her face and sighed as she felt the girl’s fingers grip the skin of her thighs and knead gently at their long lengths from knee to buttock. The oil she was using was scented with thyme and the sweeping rhythm of her maid’s hands made her drowsy. The girl’s fingers were professionally strong and for a second Maya wondered if she could strangle a man. The thought reminded her of death. And of those last hours in Moscow when she had been saved from torture by the G.R.U.[1] Only ‘he’ could have hustled her through enemy territory to Yalta and sailed her out of Soviet waters right below the eyes of Serov’s Secret Police.

  Then why did she not marry him? Sometimes the question haunted her. But sometimes she was even frank enough to face up to the answer. As one of the world’s two leading prima ballerinas the lure of a glamorous professional career had been too strong, was still too strong. And if they were married David might not even share her with the impersonal audiences of Covent Garden, Vienna or Rome.

  ‘The other side, madame.’ Her maid’s voice was professionally neutral as Maya wriggled on to her back and allowed the girl’s hands to mould themselves to the sweep of her neck. The oil was trickling on to her breasts and she half smiled as she remembered how often they had been cupped into David’s hands and fondled in half a hundred places from Moscow to New York.

  But now it would be Spain, inside the old villa which lay poised above the Costa Blanca surrounded by honey coloured stone and encaged by wrought iron worked with the magic of craftsmen long dead.

  The girl was pummelling her arms. Their tan was darker than that which covered her body. The girl’s hands worked up to the platysma muscle below her chin and unconsciously she tilted her head back to allow deft fingers to mould away the first beginnings of a wrinkle.

  And then she saw him. He was crossing the lawn. Walking with a stride which seemed deceptively slow. He was deceptive in everything. Five feet eleven inches tall he looked at least six feet plus. His hazel eyes could warm like a fire. But she had seen them cold as ice when he was killing a man. His jaw was clean cut and relaxed, but she had known it jut like a granite rock when a man laid hands upon her. The scar which hitched up his right eyebrow made him look perpetually cynical. But she knew that he was a realist and that cynicism annoyed him almost as much as sarcasm. His hair was thick and often unruly, although it looked as though it would cling to his skull like a crisply curling crêpe rubber skin and she had counted every ripple from the nape of his neck to the crest of his high forehead.

  His hand was raised in greeting and she saw him quicken his step, though she also knew that he never hurried and that it was his pose seemingly to stroll through life without effort. He was the most disturbing man she had ever met and it still annoyed her that she could not catalogue him into a neat pigeon-hole. But when in doubt she had always allowed herself to be guided by a man’s hands. They gave away more than anything except his eyes, and Grant’s hands were those of a surgeon—strong, warm and sensitive, rising from powerful wrists covered with fine dark hair. No one looking at them would ever have guessed that they killed with the same efficiency with which they had once wielded a scalpel.

  She wriggled to her feet, wrapping the thick towel around her like a sarong. There was time only to anchor the ends before he gathered her into his arms and kissed her with a passion which took her breath away. And then he broke into a tantalising grin. ‘You look like Eve after a b
ath or Venus rising from the sea. Is the pool warm?’

  She laughed as he smacked the maid and sent her back to the house. As they heard the side door click he unfastened his shirt. ‘I want a splash. Race you seven lengths.’

  He stripped well but she flushed as she saw recent scars across his shoulder and the pucker of a bullet wound on his thigh. She had learned to accept these, but some of them were recent. And that was the thing which more than anything else was wearing her down. Every visit might be his last.

  She sometimes wondered if even she herself was safe. The G.R.U. still used professional executioners and it would be easy to bump her off in a quiet garden like this while she was staring at the roses. ‘David,’ she said softly. ‘Sit down just as you are and don’t run away. I want to look at you.’

  He lit a small cigar with a platinum cased lighter and then dropped into the water to stand with his arms resting on the edge and with his lips level with her feet. He lifted one to his mouth and kissed the tip of each toe. His eyes told her that he still loved her and she sat down on the towel just within reach of his hand. ‘Yes?’

  ‘And what have you been doing?’

  He tapped her foot. ‘The forbidden question. Forbidden even to Maya.’

  ‘That.’ She pointed to his thigh. ‘Surely it is new. A bullet. Did you kill him?’

  He forced a smile, but she saw that his eyes were suddenly cold. ‘Don’t answer, David. It is just that I worry.’

  His voice was very gentle. ‘Then don’t. One day my name may turn up because something may have my initials on it somewhere. But until then let’s enjoy life.’

  ‘Was there a girl?’ She stared at him almost shyly as she spoke, but she felt her nerves tense as she waited for his answer.

  ‘There was a girl,’ he said briefly.

  ‘Would you marry me if I gave up dancing?’

  Her question rocked him. That had been discussed long ago and they had agreed that neither was the marrying kind. ‘Would you marry me?’ he said dryly.

  His jaw was set and she saw that his guard was up. Marriage, like his job, was taboo. ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I would give up my dancing and marry you if you will retire and live sensibly.’

  He climbed out of the water and rubbed himself down with her towel. ‘Why do you worry?’ he said at last. ‘My job is not really so dangerous. Not if one thinks ahead. And in a way it is important. They have spent a lot of money training me and I’ve been converted into a sort of special machine for jobs which an ordinary machine can’t do. Give me another five years.’

  Her mood suddenly changed and she saw it for what it had been, a sort of tristesse d’amour. Both of them knew that one day they might marry. But not until Maya had worked the thrill of ballet out of her system, or had been replaced by some new and younger sensation. And that might be much more than five years. Still in her early twenties she would be good for a long time, and as for Grant, they both accepted that his job was everything. And although Maya knew only that it could be dangerous, that he was some sort of spy and in the top group of world agents, she guessed that he was driven by an idealism which made him face up to evil men wherever they were to be found. Even if they were in her own country. In Russia.

  ‘Do you think I’m safe now?’ she asked.

  He nodded briefly. ‘Sure. Their new public image still can’t stand any return to the old hatchet days. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if they even protected you. Moscow doesn’t want their top refugee ballerina bumped off any more than I do.’

  The girl hesitated. Protected! If that meant Russian gunmen on her doorstep it would be dangerous for David to visit her.

  He gave himself a final rub down and stepped into his pants. ‘You need a rest, sweetheart. But remember. You are sitting on top of your own world and it will take more than that old manovitch General Sokolnikov to bring you down. So relax and enjoy the things you’ve earned.’ He paused. ‘Or are you lonely?’

  She shook her head. And she didn’t want men. Or women. Only her own man. Her career was enough to banish loneliness. But she did want peace to enjoy it and she would sleep better if he would promise again to be careful.

  The telephone suddenly rang. There was a bell fitted in the garden and Maya slipped into her monokini as the maid ran across the lawns from the house. ‘For m’sieur. They say it is urgent.’

  Grant kissed her lightly on each cheek and then strode towards the villa. She could hear the rumble of his voice even above the surge of waves. Her hearing had always been hypersensitive. In fact he had once said that her every sense had been heightened by her art until she was now only a meshwork of nerves and instincts encased within the most beautiful body he had ever known.

  And how many had he known, she wondered. How many even during these last seventy-six days and five hours? She knew their bargain. Indeed it had been her own idea. To keep a man by giving him freedom. But she understood that in her man she had a passionate animal who would find it difficult to live and work without women. It would have been unfair of her to deny him marriage and yet refuse him liberty as the price of owning her as mistress. And he had asked nothing from her in return. And yet it was fair enough. She wasn’t even jealous of the girls he met in his work. They were no more important to him than a fine dinner at Maxim’s or a night at the ballet. Simply a stimulus to keep him going. She wasn’t part of a procession. Deep down she knew that she was the only one who mattered.

  And her instinct was highly tuned. She sensed trouble before he returned, even before she saw him again. No two people can be more close than those who can read each other’s thoughts even in different rooms. ‘Well, David?’

  ‘They want me back in Paris. Almost right away.’

  ‘By car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how long have we got?’

  ‘Till breakfast at seven ack emma.’

  ‘That could be half a lifetime. So we shall dine here.’

  ‘Bouillebaisse?’

  She nodded. ‘With smoked trout in oil to follow.’

  ‘Fresh chicory and newly ripened tomatoes?’

  ‘These and some cuts of local ham with water melon to round off.’

  ‘Wine?’

  His favourite Spanish wine had been sent down from the vineyard direct. ‘An estate bottled Diamante Logrono.’

  ‘Maya,’ he sighed, ‘you do all things perfectly.’

  She took him by the arm and lead him towards the house. ‘There is even tea,’ she smiled. ‘And then we shall make love and we shall come back after siesta for an apéritif on the terrace because the mountains look beautiful in the sunset. And we shall dine after some locals have played and sang for us. I want you to hear Que bonito es mi terror and Caldera la de Bandama. They are Canary Island folk songs but I think we could have them choreographed for a special number next winter. See what you think.’

  Grant adapted himself to her new mood, but as they sipped tea in the patio his thoughts were mutinous. This was his first real holiday for three years and he had worked like a slave for it. Now they were whipping him back to H.Q. before the thing was even begun. And they had even wanted him to leave right away. But he hadn’t motored a thousand miles from Paris to see Maya and leave without some fun. And the girl had fixed a vacation only at the expense of a four-week season in South America. Neither of them thought much about money, but the fact remained that this month of stolen time was setting her back a thousand or two.

  ‘And now our siesta.’

  An elderly housemaid lifted away their tea things and Maya held out her hand. ‘I want to show you our bedroom.’

  It was almost pure Moorish, the bed a vast black frame inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The furniture, cedar or rosewood, and carved like the walls of Granada’s Alhambra. The stucco ceiling hung at the corners with stalactites, some of which dropped to the floor as fluted pillars, and golden drapes at the window flickered with warmth as Maya closed them and turned to him in the half light.

  The
re was no need for talking between these two. Silently she allowed him to unzip her housecoat. Her body reflected the sheen of sunlight flickering through a gap in the curtains and her skin seemed to ripen into the richness of a tiger’s stripes as he held her close and ran his fingers lightly down her spine.

  Her muscles were firm like rubber and braced taut against his clothes when she unbuttoned his shirt. She thrilled as she always did when her cheek lay against the crisp hair of his chest, and she could hear his heart beating strongly below flesh which was taut with expectation.

  The sound of his heart beat was his only give-away and as she heard it suddenly rise in power she allowed herself to fall back against the cool linen sheets and pulled him gently in beside her. It was the first time they had been together for well over two months and they were determined to savour the joy of contact with the languorous deliberation of experts.

  Maya’s long limbs wrapped themselves around Grant’s knees and her crushing passion almost made him wince as he felt again the muscle power which had helped to take her to the top of the tree. And then her chin snuggled into the curve of his neck as she nibbled his ear. Her arms were encircling his thighs and drawing him still closer towards a union which would leave them wracked with the pain of happiness. But they were sensitive to each other’s mood and could draw upon one another’s desires as a great musician could play with his instrument.

  Until at last they slept.

  Then the evening passed in the patio while Maya figured out a sequence to guitars played by three boys and the voice of a girl singing Que bonito es mi terror. The clap of hands blended with the quiver of strings and the clack of cicadas. One man performed a Zapateado of Saraste almost as brilliantly as anything Grant had seen by Antonio, and then, abruptly, Maya took over when Flamenco drove her into an impromptu Estampio which possessed her with a fantastic rhythm and drove her into a filigree of footwork while her body twisted like a fluid question mark. Serpentine arms and sinewy abandon flashed in the darkly velvet air as Grant watched, spellbound, knowing that this was something better than she had ever achieved even at Bolshoi. Her mood was violent and the cruelty of gypsy flamenco seemed to rouse the devil in her, until, at last, she flopped on a pile of cushions and broke into a broad smile. ‘That was how I feel about you, David,’ she said. ‘Do you think they would like it in Paris?’