She leaned over him and whispered ‘ORANGE BLUE. Who is ORANGE BLUE?’
His face immediately twisted and a surge of excitement passed through her. His reaction proved that he knew something. His subconscious was in conflict with his training. For five minutes she kept repeating ‘ORANGE BLUE - who is he? What is he?’
At one point she paused to inject more valium. Her fingers were shaking and she had to be careful. Too much and he would sink into a coma-perhaps for hours.
‘ORANGE BLUE,’ she kept repeating. ‘Who is he? What is he?’
She began to think she would lose and she became frantic, leaning over him, one hand on his chest, the other on his belly, her lips close to his ear. Then for the first time Jamil spoke. In awed tones he said: ‘Look. Look at it!’
She turned her head and was looking at Misha Wigoda’s erect penis. It was ludicrous and she started to laugh hysterically, but then she remembered and got control of herself.
‘Yes. It can happen. Valium in that dosage takes away every inhibition. It’s even a kind of aphrodisiac.’
‘Who would believe it?’ Jamil breathed. ‘Such a tree from so small a root.’
She smiled and then something occurred to her. Maybe it was her touch that had caused it. Maybe that could be used to advantage.
She reached out and gripped the erection and moved her hand slowly up and down. The bound man moaned and writhed on the table. Jamil began to breathe deeply. She leaned close and licked Wigoda’s face. He was moaning constantly now, and his tongue came out, searching for her, and his back arched pushing his erection up into her hand.
Abruptly she released him and stood back. ‘ORANGE BLUE,’ she said. ‘Who is he? What is he?’
He was gasping in frustration and she played on it. Half a dozen times she toyed with his erection and then withdrew until the drugged man was in a frenzy. Then she said:
‘Tell me. ORANGE BLUE. Tell me and I will give it to you.’
In the kaleidoscope of his brain something snapped. His voice came out as a croak.
‘Munger.’
At first she didn’t comprehend, but he was repeating it, pleading.
‘Munger . . . ORANGE BLUE . . . Munger.’
She backed away from the table, her face at first showing shock but then becoming suffused with wild pleasure. It was the crowning moment of her life. Jamil was watching her curiously. He had not understood her or Wigoda but he had never seen a woman so thrilled by a mere word.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’
‘Oh yes,’ she breathed. ‘More than I wanted. Much more.’
She was savouring the moment. Savouring the thought of Sami Asaf getting the news. Learning that the man he had helped get into Iraq and work there and travel the country was a Mossad spy. She was savouring the thought of Munger being arrested and taken away to God knows what. She hated him from the soles of her feet to the tips of her hair - the hair that he had so scorned.
She would not signal Baghdad. She wanted to be there, to see their faces. To laugh in their faces. She would catch the first plane to Baghdad. A few more hours would not matter; they would be hours of pleasurable anticipation. Jamil’s voice broke into her reverie.
‘Do I kill him now?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Are you finished with him?’
She looked at Wigoda. He was still writhing and straining against the cords, his erection huge in relation to the size of his body.
‘No,’ she said.’ Leave us. I’ll call you.’
Jamil moved towards the door, watching her curiously. He started to say something but she snarled at him to get out. He went into the corridor outside and banged the door behind him but he did not quite close it. It was slightly ajar-just enough for him to see into the room.
He watched as she reached up and pulled the pin from her hair and shook it free. She unbuttoned her black blouse and slacks and kicked off her shoes. His breath drew in at the sight of her long, naked body.
She climbed onto the table and straddled Wigoda. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth, her eyes were mere slits, the inside of her thighs already wet from anticipation. Inch by inch she impaled herself, grunting with pleasure.
Wigoda’s eyes were wide open now, staring up at her as his hips bucked. It could not last long. Her buttocks pounded up and down to a rising crescendo. Suddenly as she reached her orgasm, she gripped his ears, pushed back his head and sank her teeth deep into his exposed neck - into the jugular.
‘Colonel’ Jamil Mahmoud turned away and vomited onto the stone floor.
Chapter 18
It is standard practice among Intelligence agencies to obtain passenger manifests from airports in sensitive areas. These manifests are then fed into computers so programmed that certain names produce a reaction.
It was natural that the ORANGE network had such an arrangement at Larnaca Airport. It was simplicity itself. Walen Trading was the major shareholder in an air freight forwarding company with offices in the terminal building. For a small monthly stipend a junior officer in the airport administration would drop off, within fifteen minutes, the passenger manifest of all arriving and departing flights. For departures he didn’t even bring a typewritten list - merely the punched telex tape that had been used to send the manifest to the airport of destination. This was fed into the telex machine and appeared simultaneously on the telex machine at the ORANGE network headquarters in Limassol.
So it was that only twenty minutes after the departure of Cyprus Airways flight 502 for Beirut the ORANGE duty officer cast his eye down the passenger list and saw the name: Mrs R. Paget.
He knew that Walter would still be in his office next door so he punched a button on his intercom and passed on the information. It took Walter two minutes to discover that there was a Jordanian Airways flight to Baghdad from Beirut at 9.00 pm.
The flight time from Larnaca to Beirut is only twenty-five minutes but even as Ruth was nervously checking through Beirut immigration, Tamar Feder was receiving an urgent wireless message in his ‘safe house’. He was to drop everything and rush out to the airport and, by whatever means possible, ensure that a Mrs Ruth Paget, in-coming passenger from Larnaca, did not get on the Jordanian Airways flight to Baghdad. A detailed description of her followed. Two minutes later he was in his car and cursing the rush hour traffic.
Ruth breathed more easily as the Customs man merely glanced at the array of lotion bottles and compacts on top of her vanity case and waved her through. Very often a beautiful woman would have problems at Customs: the officers like to keep them a long time and sometimes maul through their underwear.
She passed out into the main hall and headed for the departure area and the Jordanian Airways counter to pick up her ticket. Due to the civil war the once bustling airport had become more like a mausoleum. To the left a few passengers were at the check-in counter. She glanced up at the departure board. Her flight was the only one for the next two hours. She bought her ticket and the man behind the counter confirmed that the flight was on time. She was halfway to the check-in when she saw her, standing at the back of the short queue. She had been dominating her thoughts and she recognised her instantly - Janine Lesage.
Ruth turned away in confusion. She carried her bag and vanity case to a row of seats and sat down. She forced herself to think rationally. If Janine Lesage was going to Baghdad she must have already finished with Misha Wigoda. He must have talked. Ruth tried to work out why Janine Lesage herself was going to Baghdad. Surely she could signal the information? But Ruth had no idea what the communications might be like. Maybe she was taking the information herself? It would fit her character - and her ego. She would want to be on hand - she hated Munger.
With total certainty Ruth knew that Janine Lesage must not get on that plane. She started to formulate plans to stop her, but they were confused. She was in Beirut. She knew no one. She could not go to the police.
It quickly became obvious: she would have to stop Janine Lesage herself. B
ut how? Shoot her? Where? It could be either here in the terminal building or on the plane. But that was dangerous. She might recognise her. It had been a long time but she would remember Duff Paget’s wife.
Ruth watched as she reached the front of the queue and passed over her single suitcase and smiled winningly at the check-in clerk. Ruth had to make a decision. Time was running out. Then the French woman was turning away holding her boarding pass. She walked diagonally across the hall and through a door which had a black plastic sticker showing the outline of a woman - she had gone to the toilet.
Ruth knew it was her best chance. She picked up her vanity case and moved purposefully across the hall.
Through the door was a long room. Six cubicles lined one side and five wash basins and a wide mirror the other. Janine Lesage was standing at the middle basin. Her handbag was open and she was carefully making up her face. She glanced sideways as Ruth came through the door and then went back to applying her lipstick.
Ruth put her vanity case beside a basin and fumbled with the lock. It was the combination type and for one heart-stopping moment she forgot the numbers. She took a deep breath to calm herself and then remembered and spun the wheels. She was icily determined now. She lifted the top tray out of the case and rummaged through to the bottom. She eased open the tin, lifted out the Beretta, unwrapped it from the carbon paper and slipped off the safety catch. The gun felt good in her hand, which was no longer shaking. She was standing only four feet from her target and she would not miss. She glanced sideways at the mirror. Janine Lesage was now working on her eyebrows, leaning over close to the mirror. Ruth picked her spot, just under the left breast. She started to lift the gun and, at that moment, a toilet flushed loudly behind her. Startled, she plunged the gun back into the case. Her hand was shaking again. A cubicle door opened and an old Arab woman came out. She shuffled to the basin between the two Europeans, reached for the soap and began to wash her bony hands. Ruth slowly regained her composure and determination. It was a race now between the old woman’s ablutions and Janine Lesage’s vanity.
At first Ruth thought she would have to do it in front of the old woman. Her target had finished her eyebrows and was patting face powder onto her checks. Perversely Ruth thought ‘You’re getting old, you bitch. The lines are showing.’ Then she saw the woman’s eyes watching her in the mirror, curiously, and she began rummaging about in her case, keeping her face averted.
At last the old Arab was rinsing her hands and looking around for a towel, not seeing one, and mumbling under her breath. Then she was heading for the door, shaking water onto the floor. The door closed and once again Ruth had the gun in her hand, but now Janine Lesage was staring at her with recognition in her eyes.
‘You’re ... ’
The gun came clear as Ruth turned to face her.
‘Yes, you bitch, I’m Ruth Paget.’
Maybe having to spit out the words slowed her, maybe it was just inexperience. In one reflexive, feline movement Janine Lesage dived and her right hand chopped down. The gun was only half raised when it was slammed out of Ruth’s fingers. It bounded on the tiled-floor and skidded under the door of a cubicle.
Janine’s shoulder crashed into Ruth and both women tumbled to the floor, scrabbling to get a grip on each other. It should have been an uneven fight: Janine Lesage had been trained in such matters, but Ruth had greater motivation and a great rage. The inhuman strength of a mother protecting the life inside her. As they wrestled across the slippery floor she had mental flashes of Duff, whom this woman had killed; of Munger, whom she wanted to kill; and, above all, the embryonic foetus forming in her belly. Janine Lesage fought with strength and skill. Ruth fought with ferocity.
It was the distilled ferocity of a wildcat fighting for her young and for her mate. She was hissing through her teeth as she fought to get her hands round the other woman’s neck. Janine broke the hold easily, aimed a kick with her heel at Ruth’s knee and at the same time stabbed the spread fingers of her right hand at Ruth’s eyes. The fingers missed as Ruth jerked her head back but the heel connected. As Ruth grunted in pain Janine rolled away trying to give herself room to get to her feet. She almost made it, but Ruth twisted after her, managed to clutch an ankle and brought her tumbling down. She tried to cushion the fall with her left hand and fell heavily onto it. There was a crack of wrist bone and Janine squealed in pain and then Ruth was on her again. She fought without form or plan, only instinct; smashing her fists into Janine’s face and body unaware of the pain in her knee or her knuckles as they connected with Janine’s teeth and angular bones. Janine scrabbled back and struck out wildly with her feet, catching Ruth low in the belly. It slowed her down and Janine was able to scuttle into a corner and with her good hand push herself to a crouch. Ruth was on her knees gasping in pain, her hands clutching her belly. They looked at each other. Janine’s left arm hung limply. Her face was battered, both lips split and bleeding and her nose broken and bent. Her blouse had been ripped open and her breasts were red and scratched. In her eyes was a mixture of rage and fear. In Ruth’s eyes there was only rage. Slowly she rose to her feet, took her hands from her belly and started to move forward. As her weight came onto her left leg she winced with pain and almost collapsed. A look of triumph came into Janine’s narrowed eyes: her adversary was at least partially crippled. She looked beyond Ruth to the door of the toilet under which the gun had slid, then with her right hand she reached up and pulled out the long silver pin holding up her hair. As the blonde tresses tumbled to her shoulders, she held the pin out pointing it at Ruth. Through her bloody lips she said:
‘You’re going to die. Just like your husband died and just like that bastard Munger is going to die.’
Hatred flowed between them like strands of poison. Keeping her weight on her right leg, Ruth edged forward. Janine waited with her back to the corner, the pin held like a dagger. Then abruptly she sprang forward, lunging with the pin at Ruth’s face - at her left eye.
It almost found its mark but Ruth spun away and the pin went deep into her upper cheek under the bone. She screamed and jerked her head tearing the pin from Janine’s fingers and spinning it tinkling into a wash basin. But it had served its purpose and Janine was past her and rushing for the toilet door and the gun. Only one thing saved Ruth’s life. In her frenzied rush Janine wasted a precious second trying to pull open a door that she should have pushed. That, and the position of the gun, gave Ruth vital time. As Janine knelt over scrabbling behind the toilet bowl for it with her one good hand, Ruth dropped on her back with all her weight. Janine’s forehead smashed against the cistern and she momentarily blacked out. In that moment Ruth grabbed a handful of the yard-long hair and wound it twice round Janine’s neck. With her left hand she held the Frenchwoman’s head hard down into the bowl. Slowly and with savage strength she began to pull and tighten the thick coils around the long elegant neck. The toilet bowl amplified the sounds of choking.
Tamar Feder parked right in front of the terminal entrance, leapt out of his car and bounded up the steps. He went straight to the check-in counter and asked if Mrs Ruth Paget had checked in. The clerk consulted his list and shook his head. She would have to hurry, he remarked, or she would miss her flight. Tamar’s gaze swept the almost empty hall. There was no one who answered the description of a tall, beautiful brunette. He walked slowly down the hail, beginning to think that the people in ORANGE headquarters were losing their sanity. He still hadn’t decided how he could stop the woman boarding the flight. His options ranged from gentle persuasion to slugging her over the head. He stopped and looked around again and then, twenty yards away, the door of the women’s toilet opened and she staggered out, holding a blood-stained handkerchief to her face, her hair and clothes dishevelled. He was next to her in a moment, his body shielding her from view.
‘I’m from the ORANGE network. What happened?’
She looked at him uncomprehendingly, eyes glazed. Gently he held her by the shoulders and said:
‘Mrs Paget, I’m Tamar Feder from the ORANGE network.’
Her eyes cleared and she muttered: ‘Janine Lessage.’
‘Where?’ He shook her. He couldn’t help himself. ‘Where? Mrs Paget?’
She pointed with her thumb to the toilet.
‘Sit over there.’ He gestured at a row of seats and as soon as she started moving he slipped his hand under his jacket to the butt of his gun and pushed through the door.
When he came out thirty seconds later she was standing by the chairs. A few people were looking at her curiously, at the blood on her white blouse and handkerchief. He moved casually but fast, putting his left arm around her, his right hand still under his jacket. As they reached the entrance the loudspeaker called her name. She should check in immediately.
She started to mutter something about having to get to Baghdad but his arm was firm about her. As he propelled her down the steps to the car he said:
‘You’re going back to Cyprus.’
Chapter 19
‘Why the hell do you want to go up there?’
‘My nose tells me something is going to happen,’ Munger replied.
Sami Asaf smiled, but not in disbelief. Munger’s nose had a reputation for smelling a conflict before it happened.
They were sitting in a corner of the bar of the Sinbad Hotel. Sami was drinking orange juice and Munger his usual vodka. Most of the other occupants of the room were western businessmen relaxing after a hard day negotiating with Iraqi Government officials. Munger recognised one of them but they did not acknowledge each other. He was a Belgian arms dealer called Pierre Renard and only a year ago had acted as a broker between Iran and Israel in the arms transactions that Munger had initiated. He had done a good, discreet job and Munger liked him and had subsequently recommended him to Walter Blum. It was an indication of the amoral nature of the arms business that he was now in Baghdad selling to the Iraqis. There is no better formula for profit than supplying both sides in a protracted war. He also had another role: he was now a courier for the ORANGE network and that too was profitable. Munger had not expected to see him in Baghdad. Obviously Walter was stacking the deck.
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