by Paul Kenyon
Penelope's riding entranced Abai. "You ride like a true Kazakh! I don't believe you're half Russian! When you're my wife, you will win all the prizes at the jorgga-jarys between the tribes. There will be jewels in your saddle!"
She'd given him a fierce slant-eyed stare and spurred her horse on. She couldn't very well tell him that she'd learned to ride growing up in a suburb of Philadelphia, entering her horse, Major, in county shows.
Nobody had stopped or questioned their party. The Russians let the half-savage Kazakh tribesmen strictly alone. They were Soviet citizens — loyal if unpredictable wards of the state. No Russian security man wanted to take the chance of disturbing the uneasy truce. Better to spend five generations moving them into cities, finding them jobs in factories, giving them the modern wonders of indoor plumbing and transistor radios.
Besides, Abai and his tribe were well known on these rolling steppes. His yurt, with its yellow banner, was an established sight. It wouldn't have occurred to a Russian security man to wonder which members of his tribe were traveling with him from Alma Ata. All Kazakhs look alike anyway.
Penelope had slipped out of Abai's camp the night before, after the Kazakhs, drunk on kumis and shubat, had gone to sleep. The pack of half-wild Afghan hounds they used as watch dogs had made no alarm. She'd taken good care to make friends with all of them during the six-day hegira. She covered the dozen miles to her observation point on foot.
Well back in the shelter of the gnarled and overgrown apple trees, she spread out her kit. There was the pistol-shaped Spyder; it had been waiting for her in Moscow. That would get her over the walls. The little Bernardelli VB automatic lay on the grass beside it. The telescope — pieced together out of Skytop's camera lenses. An assortment of bugs, disguised as five-kopeck pieces, and the fake nipples that generated microwaves. The cigarette holder, with the CO2 cartridge that shot a fatal splinter of crystallized black widow spider venom. And the transceiver and high-speed encoder, no larger than a pocket Bible.
Gratefully she peeled off the invisible adhesive that had turned her eyes into slits. She wouldn't need them now. If she were caught, it wouldn't matter what shape her eyes were.
She stripped off the Kazakh clothing. She wouldn't need that anymore either. A black body stocking would be more like it, giving her freedom of movement and invisibility.
She stood nude on the hillside, feeling the warm wind of the steppes blow through her hair, smelling the fragrance of green things pushing their way through the earth. This fertile land, sprawled between Persia and the western thrust of China, was the Soviet Union's fruit orchard and flower garden. Later in the year it would be heavy with the smell of apples and peaches and tulips.
It would be a hell of a place to die.
She unfolded the body stocking, then put it down again. There was a clear stream at the foot of the orchard. After six days of riding, a bath would be nice first.
She picked her way, barefoot, down the slope, a cake of soap in her hand. She waded into the icy water, hip high, then dipped under. It was marvelously refreshing. She scrubbed vigorously, ducked again. Her head broke the surface, water streaming down her face. She rubbed her eyes.
They were waiting for her at the water's edge.
There were three of them: Abai and his two brothers. Evidently, this was considered a family affair. They looked like a trio of Genghis Khans, standing there in their fur-trimmed coats and caps and soft leather riding boots, the wicked knives in their belts.
Abai held an ancient long rifle. It was pointing competently at her belly.
"So, you are not a half-Kazakh girl," Abai said, his face a golden mask of fury. "You are a spy."
"We found your things, spy, at the top of the hill," one of the brothers said.
He held up the transceiver to show her, then dropped it on the ground. He crushed it with his boot, grinding the components into the earth.
An Afghan hound pranced around them, its silky hair streaming in the breeze. It was Duri, Abai's pet hunting dog. She'd fed him choice morsels from her supper every night and let him share the pile of furs she slept on. He wagged his tail at her and barked a friendly greeting. He was proud of himself for having led the brothers to her.
"Come here, devil-woman," Abai said.
She stood motionless, sizing up the situation. There was only one gun.
"Come here, woman, I said!"
"Will you turn me over to the Russians?" she called.
The brother who'd smashed the transceiver gave an evil grin. "Bugger the Russians," he said in Kazakh. "This is personal."
The other brother said, "You're going to get a taste of Kazakh justice. We'll stake you out and use you, until we are tired of you. Then we will kill you, a little at a time."
He drew his knife and made a gesture of a woman's breast being held out from her chest, then sawed off.
"Is this true, Abai?" she said. "You will let them do this?"
"We are his brothers," one of them said complacently.
"Enough talk," Abai said. He handed the rifle to the first brother and waded into the stream after her. She waited motionless, her arms at her sides. She could do nothing while there was a rifle in the situation, out of her reach.
His arm lashed out at her face, sending her staggering. He caught her with a strong hand before she could fall and dragged her after him out of the stream. She stumbled along meekly, not letting him feel her strength.
The second brother was already unbuttoning his trousers. "As long as you keep us interested, our knives will taste no blood. After that… you will beg to die." He showed her a fat cock, peering eagerly at her face for a reaction.
The first brother laughed harshly. "That will not be till dawn tomorrow. Kazakh men do not tire easily."
He prodded at her bare buttocks with the rifle. Penelope squealed and jumped. He laughed. But her wriggling movement had made the rifle barrel slide past her hip.
He was still laughing when she broke loose from a surprised Abai by planting a sharp elbow in his ribs and jerking forward sharply, continuing the movement to grasp the rifle barrel with both hands.
She twisted the rifle violently, breaking his trigger finger, and kicked with the hard edge of her foot at his crotch. He screamed. The rifle was in her hands.
She swung it like a club at Abai's head, but he was agile. He ducked, and the heavy butt whished over his head, just brushing his cap. He was already moving, his knife in his hand.
Most people would have hung on to the rifle, making its inertia spin them and getting their belly sliced open. The Baroness knew better. She let go the instant she realized she'd missed. The rifle flew like a javelin and splashed into the stream. It was just as well. She wouldn't have dared to fire it anyway, with Russian security men swarming through the valley.
By the time Abai's knife reached the place where her belly had been, she was a yard away, her bare foot coming up to give him a kick in the side of the knee. He stumbled, and she was behind him, kicking at the back of the other knee. He pitched forward, out of balance.
Second Brother was lurching toward her with his own knife, his left hand stuffing his penis back into his trousers. Her senses were racing with excitement; there was time to see everything, as if it were all happening in slow motion. Abai had thrown his hands forward to break his fall; in a moment he would spring to his feet again, twisting to face her with his knife. The Afghan hound was dancing around them, whining and barking, not sure yet how serious it all was. He was the most unpredictable and dangerous element in the situation. First Brother was still doubled up in agony, holding the hand with the broken finger awkwardly, but his left hand was scrabbling for the knife in his belt. She didn't have to worry about him for at least ten seconds.
First she grabbed Abai by the seat of his pants in a mighty heave that took advantage of his continuing forward momentum. The momentum was transformed into a crazy somersault. Near the top of his arc, she put her shoulders into it. His spine arched backward, his legs
flailing in the air. For a fraction of a second he rested on the top of his head, his chin straining forward. Mercilessly she stamped her bare heel on the protruding chin and pushed him the rest of the way over. His neck snapped with a sharp crack.
It had taken three seconds.
She caught the knife from his hand just as his dead fingers gave it up, leaning far over, off balance. She didn't try to straighten up. Second Brother would have been there with his knife first. Instead, she continued her forward pitch, shooting out a stiffened left arm that supported her in a cartwheel.
In a nice estimation of distance and relative motion, she caught Second Brother square in the chest with both feet. He staggered backward and fell on his rump. He landed just as her own feet hit the ground and she whipped her body erect, her breasts swinging, the knife in her hand. She leaned over, almost casually, and gutted him from crotch to breastbone with Abai's knife.
He stared unbelievingly at his spilled guts, his eyes glazing, the knife falling from his hand. He opened his mouth, but only a hoarse croaking sound came out. He gave a violent shudder and died.
Penelope stepped quickly away from the body and stood deliberately still, relaxed. Duri, the Afghan hound, was yapping, an incongruously high-pitched sound for such a large dog, his tail stiff and his silky ears laid back. He was trying to figure out what was going on; only now, at the smell of blood, had he decided it was serious.
Penelope wasn't anxious to cope with him. Afghan hounds are the fastest killers in the dog world — faster than Dobermans, faster than wolfhounds. They can rip out a leopard's throat before the leopard has time to turn its head.
"Good boy, Duri," she said softly.
He whined and wagged his tail at the person who had fed him. Penelope stretched out her hand, and he bounced forward, the narrow black face grinning, the long blond hair bouncing. But he stopped short of her, not letting her pat him. He pawed at Abai's body and whimpered.
Ten seconds.
She turned to First Brother. He was halfway up the hill, scrambling away from her in terror.
She started after him. The dog galloped after her. Running creatures were something he understood. If they were leopards or gazelles, you killed them. If they were people, you played a game with them. He ran circles around her, wagging his tail, getting in her way. First Brother increased his lead on her.
She reached the crest of the hill in time to see First Brother vault, Mongol fashion, into the saddle of one of the three horses that were tethered there. He made a swipe with his knife and cut the reins that were tied to a dead apple tree. He kicked the horse with his heels. The animal launched itself forward, nostrils flaring.
Her possessions were strewn at her feet, where the brothers had thrown them. She didn't see the little gun. She snatched up the Spyder and sprinted for one of the other horses.
It whinnied and stamped its hooves when it felt her unfamiliar foot in the stirrup. She swung herself into the saddle and slashed at the reins with her knife. She slapped at its rump with the Spyder, and it galloped madly after its mate. Penelope leaned forward across its neck and caught the severed rein. She had to keep the two ends in her fist, keeping her hand well forward, but she could control the skittish Mongol beast.
They galloped across the vast grassy plain, the Mongol horseman in his long coat and boots, and the beautiful naked woman, her long black hair unfurling like a banner behind her. Riding hard, her knees gripping the horse, her breasts bouncing painfully, she closed the gap between them to a hundred, seventy-five, fifty feet.
But she couldn't seem to get any closer. Her horse just wasn't fast enough.
He turned around and grinned at her. He knew he was out of danger. And sooner or later, on this immense, empty plain, they'd encounter help for him. A Russian patrol, or a band of Kazakh hunters.
She kicked at her mount with her naked heels. But the wheezing animal, its stamina going, began to fall back. At the same time, First Brother urged an extra burst of speed out of his own horse. The gap between them began to grow.
It was too far, but she'd have to try anyway.
She rested the long barrel of the Spyder against the forearm holding the reins, trying to steady it. The pistol winch hadn't been designed for this. But if it didn't work, she was dead.
She aimed for the precise center of his back, bracing the Spyder against the violent jouncing. She pressed the trigger.
The Spyder spat out its silken line. The polymer thread was attached to an explosive piton that was meant to anchor itself in a brick wall or a tree trunk, not a man's spine.
She saw him lurch in the saddle as the piton struck him, spreading its metal barbs in his body. She thumbed the button controlling the clutch. The powerful spring in the butt of the Spyder whirred. All of a sudden, First Brother was dragged backward out of the saddle.
He hit the ground and bounced. She reeled him in like a fish. Her horse shied and pawed the air with its forelegs when the writhing bundle skidded up to its hooves. Penelope hung on to its mane and quieted it down. She jumped lightly from the saddle and cut loose the line.
First Brother was dead. The explosive piton must have severed his spine when it hit him.
His pony, trained Mongol fashion, had stopped stock still when its rider fell off. She collected the animal and tied First Brother's body across its back. She remounted her own horse, and led the other animal back to the shelter of the apple orchard. If she'd been lucky, nobody had seen the wild chase.
She buried the three bodies, scooping out shallow graves with a knife. She'd untie the horses and send them on their way when she was ready to move against the space installation. The Afghan hound, she knew, would follow them home. They wouldn't arrive until next morning.
By then it wouldn't matter.
She collected her gear. It was all there, even the Bernardelli VB. Only the transceiver had been destroyed.
She sighed. She'd just have to go ahead without transmitting any information.
Or receiving any.
* * *
"If anyone stops us," Eric said, "you're a Hungarian."
Wharton laughed. "Is my Russian that bad?"
"Worse."
They entered the ministry building, two sober-looking bureaucrats with briefcases. "Dobroye ootro," Eric said curtly to the receptionist. He steered Wharton authoritatively by the arm. "Sjooda, pazhalsta."
They walked briskly across the dismal lobby toward the doors at the rear. Eric nodded at the young guard on duty. His nod was unfriendly. The guard gave him an offended look.
They ignored the elevator and took the stairs, six flights up. They emerged into a yellowing corridor, bustling with the traffic of clerks carrying papers. An old woman in a babushka wheeled a cart vending kvass and carbonated sweet water. Nobody looked twice at them.
"Third door from the end of the corridor," Eric said.
They timed their arrival so that there was no one in the immediate vicinity. Eric checked the number on the frosted-glass panel. Then, quickly, they stepped inside and closed the door behind them.
There was a porky little man in a food-spotted tie and jacket sitting behind a desk. He gave them a self-;important frown. "What do you want? I am busy. You have no business here."
Eric nodded to Wharton. Wharton stepped past the desk to the window and looked outside.
"What are you doing?" the man said. He started to get out of his chair.
Eric pushed him down roughly. "Shut up," he said in Russian. "Stay where you are."
The porky man sputtered. "Who are you? I'm going to notify the security guards."
He reached toward a buzzer on his desk. Wharton's hand shot out and imprisoned the fat wrist in a steely grip. Eric leaned over and grabbed his lapel.
"Don't be stupid, Innokentyi Pavlovitch. You've been collecting our money for a long time. We're here to present the bill."
Innokentyi's face went gray. He slumped in his seat. "I don't know what you're talking about," he whispered.
"Don't give me that." He nodded at Wharton. "My friend is low on patience."
Wharton obliged with an evil grin. He squeezed the fat man's arm painfully.
"You are my new contact?" Innokentyi said fearfully.
Neither of them bothered to answer. Wharton felt a little guilty, using up a contact that the CIA had spent years in developing and paying off. But he thought of the Baroness, operating alone in Central Asia, and told himself: the hell with them. We need this guy now. They can afford it.
"What do you want of me?" Innokentyi said.
"That's better," Eric said. "We're just going to use your office for a few hours."
Wharton and Eric unpacked the laser components in their briefcases. They fitted the elements together, setting up the tube on a stubby tripod which they mounted on the windowsill.
"The PKO offices are that row of windows on the fourth floor, just past the balustrade. Our informant says the best bet is the second window from the right. The project director for antisatellite warfare sits there. His subordinates are in and out all day, giving him verbal progress reports."
Wharton aimed the tube, then plugged in the black box containing the holographic translator. The laser beam, invisible in daylight, would shine on the windowpane across Arbat Square, in the PKO headquarters that were protected by being housed in a building occupied by Soviet military intelligence. The beam would "read" the minute vibrations in the glass caused by the sound of voices in the room. The translator in the black box would turn the vibrations back into sound, just as a phonograph turns the ridges and valleys of a record into sound.
Eric put on the earphones, and plugged in the little tape recorder for later analysis. Wharton drew a gun with a silencer on it and stationed himself near the door.
"You can't do this," Innokentyi pleaded. He couldn't have known what the laser beam would do, but he could recognize earphones. "People are in and out of here all day."
"You'll just have to discourage them, Innokentyi, parya, won't you?"