Flicker of Doom

by Paul Kenyon

  "Too bad. He might have gotten the portrait to confess."

  Don Alejandro peered narrowly at her. At last he said, "But what Marietta says is true. You do resemble the Duchess. Or Velazquez's vision of her. The same flawless complexion, the same fine bones and black hair, the same stubborn tilt to the jaw…"

  "Perhaps Don Alejandro will invite you to have a look at it," Marietta said. "And the other portrait by Velazquez."

  "The Duke," he said stiffly. "I'm afraid I can't oblige you. It's away being cleaned."

  Penelope was amazed at the change that had suddenly come over Don Alejandro. Nobody else would have noticed anything; he hadn't changed his expression or altered the position of his body. But Penelope was adept at reading all the little physiological clues, all the little nuances of body language. The muscles at the corners of his mouth had become taut. His nostrils had flared slightly. A flow of blood had raised two imperceptible blotches in his waxy cheeks. The pupils of his eyes had grown.

  They were all the indications of a powerful emotion. What kind of emotion, she couldn't guess. But something about the portrait that was "away being cleaned" went to the heart of whatever was important in his life.

  "Oh, a pity," she said. "But perhaps you'll let me see the portrait of the Duchess?"

  "Of course," he said with Castilian courtesy. He made a little bow. "Now if you'll excuse me for a little while…" He turned on his heel and stalked off, a tall skeletal figure in black.

  "Charming man," said Marietta. "But a bit remote."

  "Why is Qasim afraid of him?" Penelope said.

  "I don't know." Marietta looked startled. "You're right! That's odd. I've never seen Qasim miss an opportunity to show off in front of his friends before."

  Penelope shrugged. It was a dangerous gesture in the skimpy darts of her halter top. "I can't blame him. Don Alejandro is a formidable figure. Perhaps Qasim was afraid of being horsewhipped."

  "Qasim loves to be horsewhipped," Marietta laughed. "The only thing he's afraid of is what his friends in the liberation movement will say."

  "Maybe the word is out to lay off Don Alejandro," Penelope suggested.

  "Perhaps you're right. Though I can't imagine why. But Don Alejandro's villa is the only one on the coast that hasn't been robbed. And he doesn't seem to have any troubles with the local tradesmen, even the most militant of them."

  Penelope laughed. "They must want his business." A tiny alarm had gone off in her brain. She turned it off for the moment.

  Around her the party had progressed to unrestrained whoopee. Somebody had persuaded the Arab musicians to attempt rock music. The result was satisfactorily cacophonous, but the rhythm tended to be complex. Two of the lute players, urged on by the tambourine beat, had risen to their feet and were rotating their hips while their instruments wailed. The melody, played by rebec and reed flutes, was barely recognizable as an old Beatles song.

  The Contessa Paoli had stripped to the waist and was shaking her little pointy breasts in time to the music, as she always managed to do at every party. A bunch of expatriate Americans and Englishmen were clapping their hands to encourage her. A few couples had already paired off, and were looking for a bedroom or were wandering out to the beach, hand in hand. A Spanish boy in white hip-huggers and a striped sleeveless top, balloon-headed from hash, was prowling the floor on all fours, pretending to be a spider. When he came upon a bare feminine leg, he bit it. A famous French novelist and the American television newscaster whom everyone knew about were dancing cheek to cheek in time to the Arab music. A little cluster of young Arabs was having an impassioned political discussion among themselves. A Spanish whore who had somehow wandered in was trying to get their attention, one by one. One of them finally noticed her, and they struck a bargain and headed out toward the beach. A young blonde girl lay naked on the floor while two young men in tattered denim, performing some kind of a grass-inspired ceremony, reverentially sprinkled a bottle of wine over her body.

  Don Alejandro was nowhere in sight. Penelope wandered out to the terrace, a drink in her hand. The young man in the white suit who was a Russian spy intercepted her. He handed her an unlit reefer. "Here, take this," he said vaguely. "I'm going to report that the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini smokes pot."

  "Thanks," she said.

  "Don't mention it," he said, hurrying off.

  She leaned on the carved stone balustrade, gazing out to sea. Gibraltar was somewhere out there, across the dark waters. Above her the sky was splattered with stars. She picked out the Great Bear and followed its pointing tail down to the bright orange spark of Arcturus.

  There was a moan down on the beach, and she looked across the sands to see an Arab boy sprawled between the legs of the Spanish whore. Her dress was pushed up to her hips, and she had her hands clasped behind her head to keep her hair out of the sand. Three of the boy's friends were lined up, waiting. One of them looked up and saw her, and waved for her to join them. She waved back and looked away.

  She finished her drink and lit the stick that the young man had given her. It was fine, rich stuff, probably grown locally. The stars moved a little closer to her.

  She spotted Don Alejandro at one of the little umbrella-topped tables that were scattered along the edge of the beach abutting the terrace. He was sitting with a bald man who had enormously wide shoulders, and an Arab youth who — she couldn't be sure — looked like Qasim at this distance.

  They were having an earnest discussion. The Arab youth gestured, pointing out across the Mediterranean. The man with the bald head nodded. Then they both turned toward Don Alejandro.

  Don Alejandro looked up and saw her standing there. He made no move of recognition. His pale face gleamed like a skull, staring unwaveringly at her.

  The other two followed his gaze. The bald head rotated. She couldn't make out the features in the starlight, just three dark patches for eyes and a mouth that made her think, of all things, of a bowling ball.

  Don Alejandro said something, and the pale blur that was the Arab's face turned away. But the bowling ball continued to stare at her for a long moment before rolling itself back toward Don Alejandro. She'd had an uncanny sensation of being picked out by a spotlight, a crawly, dangerous feeling that had to be her imagination or the Moroccan grass. She shivered.

  "Chilly, Baroness?" A hand touched her arm.

  She turned. It was Geoffrey Farquhar, looking stolid and bull-like. He was carrying his blazer over his shoulder, and his thick forearms, covered with curly golden wire, bulged out of his rolled-back sleeves.

  "Want my jacket?" he said.

  She looked him over. Geoffrey was a convenience that she'd used from time to time. All of her friends did. He was reliable, competent, civilized, and when you were through with him you didn't have to worry about him hanging around. The only permanent attachments in his life were polo, hunting, golf, sailing, tennis, skiing, archery, rowing and all the other activities that gave him those marvelous muscles that were so useful in bed. She was on edge tonight for some unknown reason. It would do her good.

  "Thank you no, Geoffrey darling," she said. "But you can take me back to my hotel."

  * * *

  "I hear you guys had a riot," Skytop said.

  He was wearing the uniform of a Petty Officer, Second Class. He was in trouble if he got caught, but at least the noncommissioned rank would keep him from being charged with impersonating an officer. They'd never get him for impersonating a gentleman, either.

  "Wasn't nuthin' like that, man," the sailor sitting opposite him said. His name was Willie Johnson, and he was a cook: one of the ratings that a black sailor usually ended up with aboard a U.S. aircraft carrier.

  "No, man, wasn't a mutiny this time," one of the other sailors said with a grin. His name was Jefferson Wills, and he worked in the U.S.S. Brandywine's laundry room.

  They were sitting at a table in the Morocco Palace, drinking beer and watching the belly dancers. The place was full of sailors from the Brandy
wine on shore leave. Everybody at Skytop's table was black except himself. His Cherokee face gave him carte noire as an honorary member of the clan.

  "C'mon, man, don't give me that!" Skytop said. "I heard you pitched a lot of Charleys overboard."

  "Nobody pitched them," Willie said. "Them motherfuckers jumped!"

  "Yeah," Jefferson said. "And they was fighting with each other."

  "So you guys weren't involved?" Skytop said.

  "Us?" Willie said innocently. "We all was below decks, cookin' their food and doin' their laundry."

  "Don't put me on, fellows. I've been assigned to the Brandywine. I want to know what's going on. There's a lot of scuttlebutt going around, but nobody'll talk."

  The sailors exchanged glances. Jefferson gave an imperceptible nod.

  "That's because we been told not to talk. National security and all that shit," Willie said.

  "You wouldn't believe the third degrees we've been gettin'," Jefferson said. "Naval Intelligence, some kind of civilian fuzz they flew out from Washington — the works."

  "Yeah," another sailor chimed in. "They honeyed us and they threatened us and they near drove us crazy, tryin' to figure out what happened. I don't think they believe it."

  Willie gave Skytop a shrewd look. "We figured at first that you was another one of those government jeffs they been sendin' to suck up to us."

  "Me?" Skytop's shaggy eyebrows went way up. "My great-great grandfather had a misunderstanding with General Custer, and I never forgot it."

  "We also thought you might be a Russian."

  "A Russian?"

  "Yeah, we think some of the jokers been sniffin' around are Russians. They like to find out what happened, too."

  Skytop slapped the table and laughed. "I'm not that kind of a Red!" he said. "So what happened?"

  "Willie was one of the ones on deck," Jefferson said. "It got him, too."

  "That's right," Willie said. "Wasn't no reason for it, but I start seein' these flashin' lights…"

  "Flashing lights?"

  "Yeah, like lightnin', sort of, behind the eyeballs. But there weren't' no lightnin'. They told me that afterwards."

  "Then what happened?"

  "Man, like I couldn't tell you. Everythin' went out, and next thin' I know I'm on a hospital cot gettin' my face slapped by a medic."

  "Everybody on deck got it," Jefferson said. "And everybody facin' starboard side. I hear tell that a gunner got off a round at a Russian destroyer before he passed out. That's why the Russians are interested. And Washington. And they say the captain was lookin' out the starboard side of the bridge when it happened, but they don't say what he did."

  "But like a couple of hundred sailors just went crazy, fightin' with one another, jumpin' off the flight deck, wreckin' things. And they all fall down twitchin', like they been seein' visions at a revival."

  "Like they been possessed, more likely," Willie said.

  "Near thirty men dead, I hear. And not from jumpin' overboard. They saved those. They just die on deck."

  Skytop frowned. "Where was the ship when this happened?"

  "Now, that's top secret," Johnson grinned.

  "Position of a naval vessel on active duty," Willie said.

  "But we can tell you."

  "You got a trustworthy face."

  Skytop sat there, waiting. He took a swig of his beer.

  They grew serious again. Willie said, "Right about here. No more than a half-mile off the coast of Morocco."

  The lights went out, and the orchestra started making noises. It was that wailing Arab music, with a clarinet thrown in for good luck. The spotlights went on, picking out the next belly dancer.

  It was Yvette. She came out, writhing like a snake, looking exotic in the tasseled gold bra and the gauzy pantaloons and the scrap of fringe that stopped just barely north of her mons veneris.

  "Man, that's foxy!" Willie said admiringly.

  "That is sweet meat," Jefferson said with reverence.

  Yvette was working her way toward their table. She was on her knees now, her head thrown back so far that her hair hung to the floor, shaking her breasts and rolling her belly around in a vast liquid circle. A couple of nearby patrons rushed out to the floor and stuffed dollar bills into her bra.

  She inched closer, her arms writhing like snakes. Skytop grinned and took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. He reached out and pushed it down into her bra, as far as his fingers would reach.

  "Get your damned hand out of there," she hissed, too low for anyone else to hear. "I have something to tell you."

  He lolled back in his chair, like any other drunk. Yvette plunked herself down in his lap, as she'd done to the other big contributors. She twined her arms around his neck, still squirming in time to the music, and put her mouth against his ear.

  "You're being watched," she whispered. "Three very tough-looking gentlemen who've been watching the scene from backstage. They're about to make a move."

  Skytop nodded and reached for a breast. She twisted expertly away and continued her act. A shower of coins rattled at her feet. She managed to look disdainful without changing her expression. Another eager gentleman was putting a banknote into her cleavage.

  The sailors were congratulating Skytop. "Hey, man, that was cool. What'd it feel like?"

  "Like thin air," Skytop said. He pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'll be right back. I gotta go to the head."

  He headed for the rear, lurching artfully. He made it all the way to the alley before they caught up with him.

  "Okay, fella, hold it right there."

  There was a flashlight shining in his eyes, blinding him, and two pairs of strong hands pinning his arms. The light came closer.

  "Get his I.D.," the voice behind the light said.

  A hand reached into his pocket and came out with his wallet. The forged identification wasn't too good. It was the best Skytop could get at short notice in a strange city.

  "Who are you guys?" Skytop said. "You're not Shore Patrol."

  "Shut up," a voice behind him said. "Here's his I.D. He's got a transfer order assigning him to the Brandywine."

  "Now that's interesting," the voice behind the flashlight said. "All reassignments to or from the Brandywine have been canceled."

  "Who are you, Mister?" said the voice in back of him.

  Skytop put on a tone of outraged innocence. "It says right there. Petty Officer Second Class John Littlebear."

  A fist slammed into his gut. Skytop gasped. The gasp was phony. He'd sensed the fist coming, and had had time to tighten up his abdominal muscles.

  "Hey!" he exclaimed.

  "Resisting arrest," the man behind him said.

  "We've been watching you," the flashlight man said. "For your information, every sailor on leave from the Brandywine has a tail on him."

  They hit him in the stomach again.

  "I didn't do anything," Skytop whined. "I was just having a beer with some friends."

  This time they hit him in the face.

  "Don't mark him up," one of the arm-holders said. "ONI wants these jokers softened up for questioning, but they don't want anybody screaming brutality."

  "ONI?" Skytop said. "Are you guys from Naval Intelligence? Listen, you're making a mistake…"

  He got a club in the kidneys for that. It hurt.

  "We never bought that story about everybody having a fit," his inquisitor said. "The Defense Department may believe the whole thing was caused by a brain virus or something, but we've seen this kind of thing before, on the Kitty Hawk and the Constellation. It's a conspiracy — to sabotage the efficiency of a naval vessel. Those guys are sticking together. They all tell the same story. But sooner or later we'll get one of them to crack."

  "Yeah," said one of the other ONI men, "and now we've got the evidence. An outside agitator."

  "You're going to confess, Mister," the flashlight man said. "Believe me, you're going to confess."

  They hit him in the gut again.

&n
bsp; Skytop thought it had gone on long enough. He kicked the flashlight man's legs from under him. A voice behind him said "Hey!" and they tightened their grip. Skytop lurched forward, and they pulled back with all their might. He suddenly pushed back and slammed them both into the brick wall. They were still holding onto his arms like bulldogs. He pivoted all the way around, turning them into a carousel, carrying them with him. The unlucky member of the pair hit the brick wall face first. That made him let go. Skytop got his arm free just in time to block the other man's descending club. He caught the other's wrist on his meaty forearm and slid his hand down to the club. He jerked sharply. The club came free. He rapped the other man over the head with the butt end. The man sighed like a deflating balloon and slid to the ground.

  The flashlight man was back on his feet. The man whose face had encountered the brick wall had recovered sufficiently to try to rush him. Skytop sighed. He sidestepped the charging ONI agent, grabbed him by the collar and seat of the pants as he rushed past and threw him at the flashlight man. Before either of them could untangle themselves and get up, he leaned over and tapped the man he'd thrown on the jaw. He turned to the flashlight man and stopped.

  The flashlight man had managed to get out a gun and a whistle.

  Skytop was more afraid of the whistle than the gun. He took a step backward at the man's gesture, his hands open and harmless. "Okay," he said, "okay."

  "Just stay there, Mister, and don't make a move." The whistle went up toward the man's lips. The gun was pointed professionally at him. There wasn't a thing he could do.