Kisses From Satan

by George B Mair

  ‘Does he control policy within the Klan?’

  The Admiral smiled. ‘From certain angles policy within the Ku Klux Klan is still something of a mystery, but it is my own per-son-al opinion that if we scotch Miller then we shall do much to pre-vent spread of Klan activities to the U-noted Kingdom or Continental Europe.’

  When the Admiral hyphenated his words Grant knew that he was either very much on edge or else well satisfied. It always went hand in hand with some sort of emotional upheaval. ‘The girls,’ he added. ‘If they renege, Miller could become a national hero and this exercise could bring down the administration.’

  ‘Impossible,’ said the Admiral. ‘Have a look at this.’

  The memorandum was labelled:

  SELECTION OF PERSONNEL FOR OPERATION NOAH.

  ‘Why Noah?’ asked Grant.

  The Admiral shook his head. ‘Why not? Anyhow read the thing.’

  WINONA X (pronounced Wine-O-na) is three-fourths Bantu, one-eighth Sicilian and one-eighth English. Her brother was lynched by the Klansmen and her sister raped by a suspect Klan member. She herself has been beaten up by Alabama State Police during demonstrations and is dedicated to the cause of Negro freedom. A highly intelligent girl of twenty-two years she is aware of the risks involved in being associated with Operation Noah but regards it as a privilege to be able to co-operate in serving her people. She speaks American with a Boston accent because she was a housemaid with a New England family before travelling south to join her grandparents after the death of the brother who lived with them. She is willing to allow her own reputation to become notorious by taking part in the build up of photographs, and those used in the photomontage with Charles W. E. Miller are likely to be published in the less reputable newspapers of five continents. She regards this as a small personal price to pay for removal of a man whom she knows to be the most deadly enemy of the American Negro alive.

  She will do exactly as she is ordered and will take instructions from a contact who will also cover your agent.

  The contact will be Stefanie Carmichael, agent number 234 on your file.

  Grant raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t like being covered.’

  ‘And neither do I,’ exploded the Admiral, ‘but this lot is out of our hands. We are working under direct orders from the D.G. and 234 is out of the top drawer. So make the best of it. Read on.’

  SULTRY M. MBAWA is aged nineteen and an American Chigro. Mother and grandfather were from Shanghai and both died during civil disturbances at Little Rock. The old man was clubbed by an unknown Caucasian and the mother killed outright by an automobile driven at high speed by two men wearing Klan hoods.

  Sultry was educated in Hong Kong and the family was admitted to the United States when she was eleven. Her father is a merchant seaman of mixed Zulu and Bantu parentage. She speaks accented American but by certain assessments has more the temperament and characteristics of her Chinese ancestry. Her emotions have been enflamed by the deaths of her relatives and she too was a willing participant in the photographs used for this exercise. She accepts the penalty of notoriety which she will have to pay for permitting publication but assesses this as of little importance when matched against the background circumstances. Finally, MARIA SUZA, aged twenty, will be the third member of the team.

  She is a New Yorker and, like Sultry Mbawa is prepared to take extreme measures in order to promote Negro status within the United States.

  She herself is a passionate idealist and an exponent of the American way of life. She took part in various processions during the past few years and was recently raped by two young men later tried in Arkansas but found not guilty by what is generally accepted to have been a fixed jury and a prejudiced judge. The youths are known to be operatives in Miller’s private administration and Miss Suza’s personal hate for Miller is equalled only by her fear of the Klan, which is also believed to have murdered her father during the Kennedy era.

  NOTE. Each of these girls has been fully investigated. Their emotional standing rates them as ideal participants in this top secret operation. They have been briefed in detail and accept control by 234. They have also been briefed in re the part to be played by your own agent and will accept his decisions as final during all phases of the operation where it may be necessary for him to deal with them direct.

  NOTE. It is suggested that your own agent be given full discretion as to which of these girls will be used and it will be his decision as to how many can safely be introduced to the Clinique. Ideally two should be involved but that decision can be made on the spot and in the light of events. ‘What sort of set-up is the clinic?’ asked Grant.

  ‘Clinique,’ drawled the Admiral. ‘But not laid out like a hospital. One large villa with extensive grounds and individual chalets for each patient. Costs a grand per week minimal.’

  Grant had begun to understand hew the Admiral’s mind worked and he guessed that the old man had already vetted the girls. ‘The photographs,’ he said. ‘We’d better have a look see.’

  The Admiral handed over a pair of kid gloves and opened the packet.

  Grant glanced for a second and then whistled. ‘Not many papers’ll handle these.’ And then he hesitated as he flicked through the collection. They catered for every taste but at least five could be used by almost any Sunday weekly in the U.K. France and Germany might use the lot but some were almost too hot to handle. ‘Which is Sultry?’ he asked, deadpan, as he felt the old man gauge his reactions.

  ‘The one with lighter skin. Winona is the busty creature and Maria Suza the thin one coming out of the water.’

  ‘And which is the most reliable?’

  The old man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sultry for me. She’s more East than West and her slant eyes have gotten a sad patient look which spells trouble for someone.’

  ‘And 234? I’ve only met her once.’

  ‘The best. You’ll rendezvous with her in Geneva. Meet at the Bavaria tomorrow night.’

  Grant hesitated. Stefanie was a silver blonde and her hair alone made her conspicuous. Was she an ideal cover?

  The old man nodded curtly. ‘Everyone knows that beautiful women are never used as spies. Which makes her a perfect choice . . . as exception.’

  ‘And is there any other angle?’ Grant had a hunch that the old man was still keeping something up his sleeve.

  A cloud of blue grey smoke smothered the air between them and Grant saw his chief’s grip tighten on his briar. ‘We collected some useful leads from that mixed bag of hoodlums you produced some time back and it is my impression that SATAN is still without a boss man. But if so,’ he added slowly, ‘you can take it that the vacancy will be filled in the im-med-iate future because I have a feeling that SATAN could be behind Charles W. E. Miller himself and that this is where paths again begin to cross.’

  Grant’s mind was racing ahead. ‘So you hope to use Operation NOAH to get on to SATAN again?’

  The Admiral nodded. ‘And this time to bag the lot. If Miller is really a fall guy for SATAN then you ought to be able to contact them again. And is it merely coincidence that Miller is going to Switzerland at this time? Our leads have forced us to consider certain powerful names very care-full-y in-deed and it is a fact that most of them are booked for a Swiss vacation. My impression is that a board meeting is going to be held to fill the vacancy and that Miller could lead you straight to base.’ He stood up. ‘Get back to your girl friend, but be in Geneva for dinner tomorrow night. A table has been reserved and 234 will be at the Bavaria on the stroke of eight-thirty pip emma. Now one last thing,’ he added smoothly. ‘You will also be staying at Hancke’s Clinique. Professor Juin has phoned him and booked you in for a month’s convalescence as a trickcycling case. You will get shot full of methyl testosterone and tranquilisers, so happy hunting. Because at least you’ll be in a chalet near to Miller himself. Which is what I call quality staff work.’

  ‘Weapons,’ said Grant coldly. ‘I’d like a chat with the Professor, sir. I need refill
s of nerve gas for my shoes, a couple of new microrockets, matches and my button hole squirt.’

  The Admiral studied him carefully. Grant was seething with anger and the old man guessed that a month in hospital was the last thing he wanted. ‘Relax boy. You won’t be house bound. Calculated freedom is part of the treatment. And you don’t check in for five days yet. Until then your address will be Hotel Rhône, Quaie Turrettini, so get on with it.’

  ‘May I take Maya for five days?’

  There was a long silence and then the old man nodded. ‘After which she gets out of your life until this exercise has been completed. Understand?’

  ‘And when do I get the weapons?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Look in before you leave. And there will be a new gadget.’ He opened a drawer and handed over a gleaming cigarette case. ‘Press that,’ he pointed to a monogram on the front, ‘and you will generate enough noise to deafen a regiment of artillery. They call it a Sonic Anti-Mobster—or S.A.M. for short.’

  Grant slipped it into his breast pocket. He had heard of the thing, an electronic miracle which confused by deafening an enemy. The only defence he would need would be a pair of ear plugs. After that the box would do the rest. Not even mobs in Viet-Nam or hooligans outside Moscow’s American Embassy had been able to stand up to the shrieking riot of one thousand decibels which could almost shatter every ear within a hundred yards. Experience had proven that men exposed to such a torrent of sound could be caught off balance long enough for even an amateur to take over control.

  He placed a small container of sorbo rubber ear plugs in his jacket pocket and pointed to his Parker 51 pen. ‘The refills are important, sir. See you in the morning and thanks for giving Maya the all clear.’

  The Admiral hesitated. ‘These nerve gas things of yours are the best secret weapon in history. I’ve never congratulated you on working them out.’

  Grant looked at him curiously. The old man was leaning backwards to be affable and it went against his grain to hand out congratulations, but he still remembered his own first exposure to chemicals which could paralyse a man with even minute doses. ‘Just a matter of guessing the right dose for a first exposure, sir.’

  ‘And the nerve to sniff it,’ added the Admiral dryly, ‘until you’ve made it possible to pull off almost any goddam thing you choose. But look after yourself. There’s a rumour that SATAN’s sworn to get you at almost any cost.’

  Grant smiled. It was his own bet that they wouldn’t be content with a straightforward killing. They would want him to know who had won. They would want him to feel defeat and they would want him to know how it felt to be at the receiving end of an execution. He deserved a face to face showdown and he figured he would get it. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said quietly.

  His chief blew out a final cloud of smoke. ‘And bring me these names. From now on it’s a question of who gets in first.’

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

  SATAN is one of the most efficient business empires in the world. It operates wherever social or political policies can be manipulated with advantage to a few extremely wealthy shareholders, and the name means Society for Activation of Terror Anarchy and Nihilism.

  Its agents have penetrated governments in five continents and several hold key positions within the United Nations Organisation itself. The Chairman of the Board has been known for over eighty years as Zero and he was first mentioned publicly by Disraeli when he referred to those powers behind government which sway political opinion. His powers are absolute and nine men from five nations have held office since Winston Churchill was born. The last man to do so was killed by a woman and the vacancy in the Board left a key situation to be filled which was more important than that of almost any Head of State.

  The constitution of SATAN is short but comprehensive. To make money and gain power. Discipline is strict. Salaries are immense and real talent is more amply rewarded than by any normal business concern, even within the United States of America. But the name Zero is almost taboo to all outside the Board and even a simple mention in front of strangers carries with it an automatic death sentence.

  Since 1945 policy has been directed more towards acquiring power than increasing cash reserves and a long-term strategy has been evolved which might lead to world government under the control of a small supra national organisation better equipped to deal with the realities of global politics than either sprawling UNO or any combination of quarrelsome Western Powers.

  Only China with the Soviet Union rivals SATAN in ruthless direction of purpose, but men from SATAN hold office both in Moscow and Pekin, and at least two important political coups can be laid to their credit. Without SATAN Khruschev might still be in power. Without SATAN there might have been no war in South East Asia or racial conflict in Africa.

  It now employed over fifty thousand men and women, most of whom had no idea of the business for which they worked. Only an elite of staff members knew more than their own job and only the Directors knew that total authority was at last within their grasp given a little luck plus continued good management.

  The headquarters of SATAN has varied with the world situation, but for fifty years a permanent base for meetings has been used in Switzerland. It is a shabby looking manor house between Les Diablerets and Gstaad just north-east of Gsteig and almost enveloped by rolling pine forests on the foothills of ski slopes adaptable for any age. And the directors ranged in age from a brilliant youth of only twenty-seven to an octogenarian with young ideas who not only could, but did, pass for a well preserved sixty-five.

  Three sentries guard the approach drive from a solitary gatehouse and only those few top men who meet there know that the gatehouse is a minor fortress with gas bombs, submachine guns and even a bow with lethal arrows ready for instant use. The bow is used by a German who can cut a thread at fifty paces and who learned long ago that even in an age of space shots there is still a place for the noiseless winging arrow which can kill with a scratch.

  Zero had tended to use this house for the general direction of SATAN ever since the Second World War had disrupted world communications and it was fitting that the meeting to appoint his successor should be held in the one place which everyone associated with a chairman who had filled his office with distinction.

  There was also the question of avenging his death, and an odd wave of sentiment had made the secretary call this crucial meeting in the room where there would be a vacant chair.

  He checked up for the last time as a light flashed on the wall. The first car had arrived. The board room was sound proof, but a television camera with concealed lens would ensure that the monitor screen showed sentries everything which took place. Microphones had already been double checked and the entire proceedings would be taped. Two broad windows, double glazed, commanded a wonderful view of background mountains and at the same time covered two hundred metres of the only approach road. The oak refectory table was placed so that every head would be turned towards the light. And, of course, the secretary’s chair was back to the window facing a wall hung with Gobelin tapestry.

  A fitted silk Chinese carpet killed noise and chairs heavy with crimson plush stood beside sheets of virgin white paper.

  The secretary pressed a panel on the underside of the table just at his knee and a drawer sprang out. The gun inside was cocked and ready for lifting. He pressed the drawer gently home as an orange light flickered on the wall when the first visitors passed the entrance hall.

  He took a final glance around. Three phones in position. Ballot box with IN and OUT baskets on the desk beside his glass. A full decanter of Vichy water and three bottles of Moet et Chandon, cigarettes, and a cabinet of José Gener cigars, the finest tobacco to come out of Cuba since plantations first started. He walked swiftly to the door. The first guests would be waiting in the salon.

  He greeted them warmly. A thick-set looking man with a skin like teak and a slender Armenian with sallow cheeks and jet black hair. ‘A
lexei and Irfan. How nice to see you.’

  He spoke English with an accent touched by the southern states of America, a slow drawl that was almost Texan but not quite.

  They nodded briefly. ‘You wear well, Jan. Nothing ever seems to ruffle you.’ The Armenian’s voice was high pitched, almost effeminate and his mouth twinkled with gold as he smiled.

  A phone buzzed and the newcomers watched, dead pan, as the secretary lifted the receiver. ‘Very well.’ He looked at them coldly. ‘You can relax. A car has been delayed. Phone calls don’t always mean the end of the world.’

  ‘Jan!’ The stocky teak faced German paused. ‘Are you suggesting that I am nervous?’

  The secretary shrugged his shoulders and his lips relaxed in a humourless smile. ‘Your nostrils twitched when the phone rang. You were fiddling with your watch chain. Your feet were restless and your facial muscles tensed. Of course you are nervous. Aren’t we all until this business is settled?’

  He turned to the Armenian. ‘Irfan. Why are you spending so much on that Circassian girl from Trabzon? My last signal from Zero before he died said you were living beyond your income and that she is eating your capital.’

  The Armenian’s gold teeth flickered for a split second and then his sallow cheeks flushed with irritation. ‘Only Zero has the right to ask that question. I’ll tell you when you’ve been elected.’

  ‘Trouble?’ A tall thin man strolled easily into the room and stared at the secretary. He lifted a José Gener and cautiously clipped off one end. His manner was totally relaxed and his hands were rock steady as he held a match. ‘No need to be so tense, gentlemen. The other six are washing up. For the moment it is true that we have no leader. But that will be remedied quite soon.’

  The three men shrugged their shoulders. Irfan lit a cigarette and Alexei glanced at his watch. ‘Which car is delayed?’