by Pat Bertram
He sipped the tea, feeling its warmth overcome the chill he’d felt ever since hearing the words “sixteen years.”
Not wanting to think about that, he said, “Are you still working the same schedule?”
She waved a hand. “Don’t bother me with trivial questions. What did you find out?”
“Lisa Donati beat up a bully at school, and her brother Josh sneaked into the girl’s restroom. Amanda Donati, their mother, is a partner at a downtown law firm.”
Her brows drew together. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Bob put his empty teacup on the coffee table and stood. “That’s mostly the kind of thing I found out.”
She chewed her lower lip as she gave him a considering look. “You said mostly. That means you did learn something.”
“Could be.”
He moved toward the door.
“You can’t leave now!” She jumped to her feet. “It’s not fair.”
“Your roommate will be back soon,” he re-minded her.
“Oh, right. It’s safer for you if no one knows where you are.”
“Safer for you, too.”
“Me?” The questioning look in her eyes turned to one of astonishment. “You think I’m in danger?”
“It’s possible. Until I know what’s happening, it’s best if I stay away. I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”
“Where are you going?”
“A motel.”
She grabbed her keys and purse off the coffee table. “I’ll drive you.”
At his request, she took him to a motel on east I-70, far from ISI. She waited until he registered, then got out of her Toyota and gave him an impish smile.
“I better check out the room for you. See if it’s okay.”
“Can I stop you?”
“No.”
She followed him up the stairs and along the corridor to the room at the back. “Typical,” she said, stepping inside. “Like any motel room anywhere in the world.” She sniffed. “It smells like someone tried to burn the place. Didn’t you ask for a non-smoking room?”
He took off his sweater. “Of course.”
She plopped on the bed. “Now what?”
“I need to take a shower, wash off ISI and all its filth.” Looking pointedly at the exit, he unbuttoned his shirt, but she didn’t take the hint.
Shrugging, he went into the bathroom, got undressed, and climbed into the shower. He stood motionless under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over his body and upturned face.
Kerry poked her head into the shower. “Looks like you can use some help.” The next thing he knew, her naked torso nestled against his back and her arms encircled his waist, melting the last of the ice in his bones.
After a minute, maybe two, her hands inched downward. He turned around and looked at her through hooded eyes.
“Is this what you want?”
“Yes.” She spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“Then first things first.”
Reaching out from behind the curtain, he snagged both washcloths from the towel rack and handed one to her. By the time they’d washed each other slowly from head to foot, then stepped out of the shower and toweled each other dry, she was gasping, and her knees wobbled.
He scooped her up in his arms.
Her eyes widened and her lips parted. “I didn’t realize you were so . . .”
“Didn’t realize what?” he murmured as he laid her on the bed and brushed a string of kisses along the sweet curve of her throat.
A soft moan swallowed her response.
***
She sprawled half on top of him, one leg between his, her head resting on his chest. He could feel her breath on his skin and the beating of her heart. A sense of finally coming home washed over him.
“Wow,” she said drowsily. “I think I still have orgasms backed up, waiting to land.”
He kissed the top of her head and inhaled the scent of her hair: clean and salty like an ocean breeze. He could feel the growing tug and tingle of urgency.
She must have felt it, too, because she said, “Don’t tell me you’re ready again.”
“If you want to.”
“I want but I don’t know if I can. I feel like a cat stretched out in front of a lit fireplace, all warm and boneless.”
“Then you lie still, and I’ll do everything.”
He rolled her over, knelt with a knee on either side of her body and, cupping her breasts, caressed her nipples with his thumbs.
She let out a rumble of contentment that sounded like a purr.
***
In the early morning hours, they finally fell asleep.
When Bob awoke in the bright of day, Kerry lay on her side, head propped on one elbow, gazing at him.
A small smile played on her lips. “Where did you learn to make a woman feel like that?”
“From a woman.”
“An old girlfriend?”
“No. Except for Lorena, I never had a girlfriend.”
She blinked. “That doesn’t seem possible.”
“It’s the truth. Jackson was two years ahead of me in high school. He was a good-looking football hero, student council president, and in the top ten percent of his class. Girls couldn’t resist him.
“I dated some of the popular girls in my class and a lot of the not-so-popular girls. They went out with me to try to get closer to my brother, but I was young enough to hope that once they got to know me, they would like me for myself. It never happened. After a while, I felt like a court jester trying to entertain girls who never even bothered to feign interest. When I realized how much time and money I wasted on those dates, I stopped going out until I met Lorena in a college history class. We enjoyed each other’s company, but she didn’t like sex.”
Kerry chuckled. “So how did she end up with all those children?”
“Technically she could have done it a mere six times.”
“I guess. Then how did you . . . oh, I see. Patpong Road.”
“Close. It was an exclusive establishment over by the American embassy.”
“Did it have a name?”
He felt a rumble of laughter somewhere deep inside him. “That’s all you want to know—the name?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Of course not, but it’s a start.”
“It had no official name, but everyone called it Madame Butterfly’s after the woman who owned it.”
“Her name can’t really be Madame Butterfly, can it? Who is she?”
“No one knows much about her, not even her real name or nationality, but according to one rumor, she was working as a prostitute in Shin Yoshiwara, Tokyo’s red light district, when a rich American enticed her to run off with him. He later abandoned her in Bangkok.
“Determined never to be that foolish again, the story goes, she learned everything about men and women and what went on between them. They said she was so good that simply by looking at a man she could tell exactly what he needed. Because of this, she could charge exorbitant rates. When she accumulated enough money, she opened her own brothel, catering to men who wanted the best and could pay the price.
“To add to her mystique, she dressed like a geisha, complete with elaborate makeup, so very few people know what she looks like.”
Kerry’s eyes grew bright with curiosity. “And did she?”
Bob sat up, arranged the pillow at his back, and leaned against the headboard. “Did she what?”
“Know what you needed.”
“Apparently she thought I needed more from sex than mere physical gropings beneath the sheets and she decided to educate me in the art of seduction. This is hindsight, of course. At the time I didn’t realize she had a plan.”
“So she was your . . . your mistress?”
“No.”
Kerry sat cross-legged on the bed, elbows on knees, chin cupped in her hands. “Then who was?”
“Several women. The first ones taught me about controlling myself, the next few taught me how and where to
touch a woman, and the last one taught me the subtleties and ceremony of seduction.”
Kerry batted her eyelashes. “Like this?”
Giving her a sidelong glance, Bob let the back of a hand graze her knee. “More like that. We’d sit in the reception room, drinking tea from fragile cups, talking of inconsequential matters, and touching as if by accident. Each tiny touch serves to arouse until the tension becomes unbearable, but you learn to bear it, and continue.”
Kerry giggled. “It sounds like the Chinese water torture. Or high school.”
Bob caressed her cheek with the knuckle of an index finger. “But infinitely more enjoyable.”
Unbidden, a memory insinuated itself into his mind: Ted, at ISI, saying that all Stark does in a whorehouse is sit and drink tea. Bob shivered; while he’d been playing his innocent games, someone had been keeping watch.
“Bob?”
He turned toward the sound of her voice.
She peered at him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
She sprang to her feet. “I’m going out to get us some food. You’re probably starving. I know I am.”
He watched her get dressed, noticing how unselfconsciously she pulled on her white cotton panties, lacy bra, jeans, socks, and the shirt that, as usual, she wore untucked.
When she finished tying her sneakers, she scooped up her purse. “Anything in particular you want?”
He shook his head no.
She opened the door and looked back. “I won’t be long.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
***
The aroma of breakfast—waffles and syrup, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, orange juice, hot chocolate and coffee—helped to dispel the stench of stale smoke that seemed to have grown stronger in Kerry’s absence.
They sat side-by-side, leaning against the headboard, surrounded by Styrofoam take-out containers. As they ate, Kerry made a point of letting her hand occasionally graze against his. The glee in her eyes added to his enticement.
Bob smiled at her. “Now all you need is a cheongsam like the girls at Madame Butterfly’s wear. There’s something very seductive about that prim, Mandarin collar and the side slit showing off a shapely leg, and yours are especially alluring.”
Kerry’s eyes widened. “I used to have a dress like that. An aunt brought it back from a tour of Hong Kong.” A grin appeared on her face. “Mother made me sew up the side. She said it was unseemly. I laughed and she got mad. She never did appreciate puns.”
When Kerry continued to tease him with her touches, Bob gently put her hand in her lap. “If you don’t stop, you won’t be going to work tonight, either.”
She flashed a radiant smile. “I don’t have to go. I’ve been trading time so I could have the weekend off.”
He slanted a glance at her. “You knew I would come back to you?”
“I didn’t know. I hoped.” Her smile faded. “You still haven’t told me what you learned.”
The bit of bacon he’d put into his mouth suddenly tasted of bile. He finished the laborious act of chewing and swallowing, then said, “I saw the two guys who searched my room. Their names are Sam and Ted.”
Kerry’s eyes were enormous. “What did you do?”
“Watched. Listened. Discovered that two other guys, Grimes and Clayton, staked out the boarding-house the night I retrieved my passport and traveler’s checks. Some time after that night my room must have been searched again because they know Sam and Ted hadn’t looked in the hem of the drapes for the papers.”
“Those mysterious papers again. Could they be identification papers, like your passport?”
Bob shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I can’t rule anything out.”
“Did you find out why they’re after you?”
“No.” He stared at the framed mountain scene hanging crookedly on the opposite wall. “I think they want to kill me. Or worse.”
Kerry’s breath caught in her throat. “What’s worse?”
“It seems there’s a clinic in Boston affiliated with ISI that does behavior modifications.”
“Behavior modifications? You mean like . . . mind control?”
“Yes.” He forced air into his lungs. “I think they did something to Herbert Townsend, the foil man, among others.”
Kerry’s voice rose an octave. “And these are the people that are after you?”
He nodded.
She took his right hand in both of hers. “What are we going to do?”
“Not we. I.”
“But—”
“People are being altered,” he said harshly. “They are dying. I don’t want the same thing happening to you that happened to Dr. Albion.”
“You mean the doctor at the VA hospital? What happened to him?
“He had an allergy to alcohol, yet supposedly died in a car accident while drunk. Ever since Scott Mulligan told me many ex-CIA agents work for ISI, I’ve been wondering if Sam and Ted or their counterparts killed the doctor. Fatal car accidents are a specialty of that agency. I know it sounds nuts, but I can’t help thinking someone wanted to prevent his inquiry into my military records.”
She looked befuddled. “What would your military records have to do with the gold Buddha?”
“Nothing. In fact the Buddha is not part of this at all.”
She swung around to face him. “How do you know?”
He looked away, unable to meet her bright gaze. When he glanced at her again, he saw that she still had her attention focused on him.
He felt the skin tightening over his face as he spoke the words. “They’ve been watching me on and off for sixteen years.”
A sharp intake of breath. “Sixteen years!”
“That’s what they said.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Does this have anything to do with you being a spy?”
He drew back. “A spy?”
“Don’t you remember? At Buckingham Square when we watched your other self, I asked if you’d ever done that sort of thing before, and you said yes.”
“Oh, right. The syndicate of sergeants.” His mouth dropped open, and he stared at her, unable to believe what he’d said. He pushed the Styrofoam containers aside and scrambled off the bed. He had put on his pants and shirt when she went for food; now he grabbed his socks and shoes and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Kerry pressed her fingertips to her mouth. “Did I say something wrong?”
Bob turned around. Seeing the hurt in her eyes, he took two long steps toward her before he could stop himself.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t afford the luxury of being with you. This person I am when I’m around you . . . I don’t know who he is. He’s not the real me. He’s too relaxed and he talks too much. The real me is the man you first saw in the Rimrock Coffee Shop. You once referred to him as a mousy little fellow, and you were right. He is. And that’s the person I need to be right now.”
To his surprise, her eyes danced. “Another self. That makes three of you.”
He frowned at her. “I’m being serious.”
“So am I. Did it ever occur to you that the person you are around me could be the real you? In your whole life, no one tried to draw you out. You and Hsiang-li shared some sort of compact of silence. He didn’t even tell you the most important episode in his life until the very end. Whatever friends you had, I bet they did all the talking while you sat there, never interrupting. And your parents. They were probably so enamored with their perfect Jackson they never paid any attention to you.”
Bob sank onto the chair by the door and put on his shoes and socks. That she knew him so well did not alter the situation. He still had to leave to keep ISI from finding out about his relationship with this young woman who’d managed to penetrate his very soul.
He glanced up from tying his shoes. Her eyes appeared unfocused, staring at something only she could see.
She shifted her gaze to him. “I still don’t understand what set you off. The last thing you mentioned was the syndicate of sergeants. That’s the Khaki Mafia, isn’t it?”
He shot bolt upright. “You know about the Khaki Mafia?”
She gave him a curious look. “Sure. Everyone knows.”
“How?”
“William Henry Harrison wrote a book about it. I reread it not too long ago.”
“William Henry Harrison wrote a book about the Khaki Mafia,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes. He’s that best-selling author—”
Bob nodded. “I know him. Tell me about the book.”
“It’s a novel called Dark Side of Heroes and starts out with this guy Bob Noone—spelled with an e like no one—sitting on the veranda of a hotel in a Vietnamese resort town called Nha Trang. Until I read the book, I didn’t even know Vietnam had resort areas.” She sighed. “One more place I never got to see, but it must have been beautiful with miles of white sandy beaches next to the turquoise waters of the South China Sea.”
“Did Harrison happen to mention why Noone went there?”
“Sure. He was recuperating from an injury and waiting for his orders. A guy approached him and introduced himself as Michael Tate. Tate told Noone he was from the State Department and that the army had lent Noone to him for a temporary duty assignment. See, this organization of sergeant majors ran the NCO clubs, and they’d been misappropriating—that’s the word Harrison used, I call it stealing—liquor, food, cigarettes, and anything else they could get their hands on and selling them on the black market, possibly to the VC. That organization extended all the way to the Pentagon. Tate wanted Noone to hang out at the NCO clubs, get a feel for the place, see who ran things, who drove the trucks. All the minor observations that could add up after a while.
“Noone protested that he was a private and didn’t know anything about undercover work, but Tate gave him uniforms with stripes, the proper ID, and even a jeep so he could move from base to base. Tate wanted him because he seemed so plain and ordinary and non-threatening that nobody would pay attention to him long enough to notice he spent all his time at the NCO clubs.”
Her eyes sparkled. “But Tate was wrong. Some people did notice.”
She paused to gulp the last of the orange juice and sip her coffee. Bob moved from the chair to the unused bed and sat on the side, facing her.