Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  She stopped at the top landing. He took her in his arms. He felt her hard points dig into his chest. He reached behind her and cupped her buttocks, pulling her tight. She put her head into his neck and then looked up at him, her head tilted suggestively to one side. She wasn’t smiling. He felt dizzy. His throat tightened. Her lips were moving. She was whispering.

  “Some love is fire. Some love is rust. But the finest, fiercest love is lust.”

  He kissed her violently as he swung her up into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Her nails dug into him as her tongue snaked into his mouth. He carried her into her room and placed her on the bed. She swung her legs to engulf him and drew him deep inside her before he even managed to get all his clothes off. They both climaxed almost immediately, like randy teenagers. Her orgasm was so intense he actually felt it internally despite his own excitement. She arched her back and emitted a protracted moan.

  When, after lessening cries, she quieted, he tried to withdraw. “No,” she said fiercely, clenching her legs tightly around him and then raising them almost to her shoulders so that he settled in even deeper.

  She spoke to him quietly, in several languages, and kissed him gently, clenching her internal muscles until he was ready again and could start moving. They lasted a very long time before completion. Only then did he stumble away from her to finish undressing. Then they lay in each other’s arms and caught up on the foreplay missed in their frenzy. They explored each other’s bodies, they toyed with each other, they played, until they couldn’t stand it anymore and joined again. She rolled on top of him. He remained passive. She was relentless with her movements. At the end, she cried, “See what you do to me. Feel that. Feel that!”

  ***

  It was almost 4 A.M. when Alana Loeb left the bed, gently covering Scarne and pulling on a wrap. She walked down to her office, which also served as an upstairs library. She closed and locked the sliding double doors. As she walked to her desk she ran her fingers along a shelf that contained her most prized books. An insatiable and eclectic reader, Alana was also collector.

  She paused in front of a first edition of Gone with the Wind. It had cost a small fortune but she had loved the story since childhood. Now, suddenly weary, she pressed her forehead against the novel, remembering the comfort it gave her with every re-reading. Her pampered back-country Argentinean life – at least before its brutal denouement – bore a passing resemblance to the romantic portrait Margaret Mitchell painted of the Old South. She identified with Scarlett O’Hara’s fall from a life of luxury and self-indulgence, and, more importantly, with her rise from the ashes of defeat and humiliation. Her eyes fell on another first edition, paradoxically her second-favorite: The End of the Affair. If Scarlett is the woman I am, Alana bitterly reflected on occasion, Graham Greene’s noble Sarah Miles is a woman I might have been.

  Sighing, Alana moved to her desk and turned on the large green shaded banker’s lamp that had been her grandfather’s. Next to it was an antique gold picture frame containing a photo of the tough old gentleman holding the reins of a spirited black Argentine Criollo mare on which sat a ridiculously dressed but beaming girl of nine. The background was slightly out of focus, undoubtedly the result of the unease of the photographer – her mother – at seeing her child on such a steed. That was the only time I wore that gaucho outfit, Alana thought, and only because he insisted for the photo.

  Smiling, she opened the top drawer of the desk, lifting out a leather-bound Smythson of Bond Street diary from its false bottom. She had kept diaries since childhood. The earliest ones were filled with the innocent thoughts, little secrets and golden hopes common to young girls the world over. Her narrative skills improved dramatically after the kidnapping. The writing was now stronger and more direct than it had been, and incredibly candid as it related to sexual and business affairs. Of course she excelled, as in everything, with computers, on which she composed reports and speeches. (Every activity of the Ballantrae organization was also scrupulously detailed on flash drives deposited in safe deposit boxes in the United States and abroad.) But her diaries were written in longhand using only Tiffany fountain pens. Her penmanship was exquisite; the good sisters had taught her well.

  Anyone reading the diaries from the beginning would assume that another woman had picked up the tale in later years. Alana, herself, occasionally reread the pre-teen passages, not out of mawkish sentimentality, but rather as a reminder of what she had lost. She found it particularly useful when she and Victor took one of their incredible risks. As she wrote now, it occurred to her that some of those risks might be coming back to roost. She had no explanation for the shooting at the pool, but knew that Jake was right: poor, drunk Tony Goetz was not the target. It was either her, Garza or Keitel – or all three of them. She might have found out had it not been for Jake’s courage.

  She paused in her writing. Garza and Keitel had reacted predictably and properly, like the mercenaries they were, by going after the assassin. She couldn’t fault their instincts. But Jake was quicker – and his only thought was to protect her. She undoubtedly would have been killed had he not reached her in time. She was, of course, grateful, and had proved it repeatedly in the bedroom. But she felt something else. They had shared more than sex in the previous few hours. She knew enough about that to recognize something entirely different. They had made love. He seemed to want to devour her, but unlike her previous partners reveled in her pleasure.

  For her part, she couldn’t do enough for him. The realization frightened her. Who was Jake Scarne? She had just met him and told him she didn’t believe in love and never lost control. I have got to get a grip, she thought. The shooting has unnerved me. But why? I have been through much worse.

  She bent to her diary. Whatever happened at the pool was a new and more immediate threat than the Shields investigation. Her thoughts went back to Scarne. She felt safer with him around. She smiled at the absurdity of the situation. Her new lover – and protector – was also hunting her. Her smile faded. But he was now in as much danger as she from the unknown assassin. Perhaps more, since Victor would also want to get rid of him. Business aside, he was undoubtedly jealous. She would have to find a way to protect Jake.

  Goddamn him! She had tried to warn him off. But had she, really? When he came back tonight she was thrilled. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. She wanted him now. She couldn’t lose him.

  Goddamn him! Goddamn him! Goddamn him!

  CHAPTER 33 – THE CROSS OF LORRAINE

  Alana Loeb grew up privileged, loved without reservation by her widowed mother and paternal grandfather on a sprawling vineyard outside the city of Mendoza 600 miles west of Buenos Aires. The province, also named Mendoza, generates almost three-quarters of Argentina’s annual wine production.

  Long-limbed and coltish, Alana was an enchanting combination of spirited country girl and, thanks to the nuns at Saint Adair Scots School for Girls, an incipient and beautiful lady of the manor. When not in school or charming tourists at the winery, she could usually be found in jeans tearing around the countryside on Mirari, her wild mare, or on skis at Las Lenas Mountain with cousins and friends. Utterly fearless, her spectacular tumbles in both pursuits terrorized her mother and delighted her grandfather, who saw in the not-so-fragile blonde beauty the possible realization of the dreams he’d once held for his dead son, his only child. (But Joseph Loeb was secretly grateful that Alana was also showing a growing affinity for golf.)

  A German Jew who escaped the Nazis as a teen-ager in the nick of time after Munich, Loeb knew the world was no place for cowards. His boy, Eduard, looked his cancer straight in the eye before succumbing just short of his 36th birthday and his granddaughter was made of the same stuff, unlike her mother. Of course, as a widower himself, Josef sympathized with his daughter-in-law. But he had opposed Eduard’s marriage to Catalin Lavalle. Her beauty was undeniable – she had been a finalist for the title of queen of the Fiesta Nacional de la Vendimia, the National Grape Harve
st Festival – but her Basque antecedents were murky and her family poor.

  “Eva Perón was a Basque,” Eduard, thoroughly smitten, had reminded him.

  “So was Ché Guevera,” Josef retorted.

  But, as he knew it would, love won out and Josef would not trade Alana for anything in the world. He fought a constant battle with his daughter-in-law over the child’s upbringing. The girl would someday inherit a small empire – the vineyard was but one family holding – built with guile and toughness in a region that rewarded both traits. She had to be prepared. Although still too young to fully understand, Alana knew her grandfather was a feared and respected man in the halls of power in Mendoza, Argentina’s fourth-largest city. She had been bounced on many a knee of men addressed as “Senador” or “Comandante.” And there were other men who visited the hacienda, usually at night, around whom the servants tread carefully. In the end, all of Josef’s planning went for naught. There was one battle that to the end of his days Josef Loeb wished his daughter-in-law had won.

  ***

  It was annual tradition at Saint Adair that students who excelled were rewarded with a trip to Santiago to visit a sister school in a poor section of town, as well as the museums and churches of the vibrant Chilean capital. And perhaps, the girls knew, to do a little shopping at the city’s famous malls. Most of the students came from the upper grades but occasionally a younger student of exceptional achievement and maturity was selected. At just 13, Alana was the youngest ever chosen – and her mother was adamantly opposed.

  “You are too young,” Catalin said. “It is a six-hour bus ride, through the mountains. And Santiago is no place for a child.”

  “But Mama,” Alana pleaded. “I ski in some of those mountains. And we will be staying at the Convent of Saint James. The nuns and teachers will be with us the whole time!”

  Josef, of course, sided with the girl.

  “Catalin! You do not give your own daughter credit for common sense. The good sisters will watch over her like a hawk.”

  Of that he was sure. Alana’s excellent marks were probably enough to have her selected for the trip, he knew, but his generous contributions to the school didn’t hurt. Eventually, they both wore Alana’s mother down.

  “Did you remember to bring fresh underwear?”

  Alana cringed as she handed her suitcase to the driver the Mercedes sedan. The man exchanged a glance with Josef Loeb and both suppressed smiles.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Two changes?”

  “Mama!”

  “Cait,” Josef said, “let the poor child go. She will miss the bus.”

  Alana tried to get in the car, but her mother grabbed her.

  “Be careful, my baby.”

  “I will, Mama. Don't worry. All my friends will be there.”

  “Don't fret,” Josef said. “She will be all right. She is a Loeb. It will do her good to see how other children live. And I wager she will buy you something nice in Santiago. And maybe something for her grandpa.”

  “Oh, I will,” Alana said, kissing her mother and then Josef. She got in the car and rolled down the window. “I love you both so much.”

  ***

  The bus chartered by St. Adair wound its way along a twisting, forest road. It was a lovely day and the dozen young girls inside opened the windows to savor the fresh air and wave happily at villagers in the small towns they passed. But as they rose higher into the mountains, the air grew cooler and they shut them. Alana was glad of that. There was too much dust and she was wearing her best clothes. Besides, there was now nobody to wave to anyway. They were alone on the road except for a small white van behind them.

  “Girls! Please keep it down!”

  Sister Rosemary and the other chaperones were having little success quieting the kids, who were chatting, laughing and singing, all the while constantly seat-hopping. “Remember, when we get to Santiago, act like Christian ladies. The children you will visit do not have all that you have.”

  Alana’s best friend, Bella, whispered loudly, “Including bossy nuns.”

  Alana stifled a laugh as Sister Rosemary stared at them. The nun turned and walked up the aisle, trying not to laugh herself. She lost her balance as the bus lurched to a halt. Students reached out to keep her from falling.

  Alana looked out the front window. A truck was straddling the road ahead. At its rear a canvas tarp was thrown open and men with rifles began jumping down. She heard a screech of brakes and turned. The white van had pulled up to the bus bumper. Four men got out. They were also carrying guns. Other armed men were coming out of the forest and converging on the bus. One of them walked up to the door and started pounding on it with the butt of a rifle.

  “Open up!”

  The driver hesitated and several of the gunmen began firing into the air. Girls screamed and clutched each other as the teachers tried to calm them. Fear was on every face. Finally, the driver opened the door. Two men reached in and dragged out the screaming man. Then they threw him to the ground and riddled him with bullets. His body bounced in the dust long after he was dead.

  “God help us!” It was Sister Rosemary.

  A grubby bandit wearing a cowboy hat stepped into the bus and looked down the aisle at the terrified passengers. Smiling, he crooked a finger at them and said, “Senoritas, por favor.”

  The men, laughing, lined up the women and girls against the bus. A few used the barrels of their rifles to lift the skirts of the older girls. A nun who tried to stop them was slapped to the ground. A bandit raised his rifle butt.

  “Enough! Stand back!”

  The order was barked by a man dressed in military fatigues. The other gunmen fell sullenly silent at the approach of their leader, who stepped casually over the corpse of the driver. He looked down the line of women and girls. A few of them looked hopefully at him. He smiled.

  “Take the women into the woods.”

  Grinning wickedly, his men pulled the women out of line and started to drag them away. Some girls fruitlessly clutched at their arms.

  “What about these,” one of the bandits asked, pointing to the girls. “They all have bee bites on their chests. We’ll make women out of them.”

  “All right,” the leader said. “Take two more. But no children.”

  The other bandit moved down the line of girls. In a brutal sexual triage, he lifted skirts and jammed his hand down their underwear. He finally reached Alana, last in line. She stood calmly as his filthy hand felt for pubic hair.

  “Ah. Peach fuzz. A little young, maybe, but I think you will do, girlie.” His hand lingered and his face broke into a leer. What few teeth he had were stained by juice from cocoa leaves.

  “Your breath smells like my dog’s anus,” Alana said, and spit in his face.

  The startled bandit withdrew his hand and brought it back to strike her. His arm was grabbed by the leader.

  “Pick two others. Go have your fun.”

  The bandit tried to protest but was pushed away roughly. Grumbling, he grabbed two other screaming girls and dragged them away. The leader turned to look at Alana. He lifted her face with a grimy hand.

  “Such beauty,” he said. “No tears.” He turned to another gunman. “Put the rest of them in the truck. But not this one.” He took Alana gently by the arm and walked her back to the white van, where a much older bandit stood.

  “My grandfather will find and kill you.”

  “That is why we do not kidnap for ransom, little one. Too dangerous. I want nothing to do with families.” He nodded to the old bandit. “Mateo, put her in the van. Give her something to drink. She is too valuable for the houses in Santiago. She will fetch a fortune in Buenos Aires. I know a place that likes them young and…unspoiled. Don’t let any of those animals near her.”

  He walked away. Alana looked back at her friends being herded to the truck. Screams, and an occasional gunshot, echoed through the nearby trees.

  “Don't look back,” the old bandit said, not unkindly. “It w
on't do any good. Just count your blessings.”

  Alana turned to him, her face impassive.

  ***

  Vera Pappas, the Greek-born madam of the most exclusive bordello in Buenos Aires, languished in her spacious bed, carelessly playing with the girl’s fine blond tresses and looking at their reflection in the ceiling mirror. The room was adorned with surprisingly tasteful Impressionist art. The faint, but pungent, aroma of high-grade Colombian gold wafted from a recently snuffed cigarette in an ashtray next to the bed.

  “You are special, Alana. That is why I have not let them turn you out yet.”

  “If I’m so special, why can’t I have a joint?”

  Pappas laughed.

  “You are too young, and it is not good for you.”

  “But I’m old enough to fuck. Is that good for me?”

  In the brothel Alana had been singled out for her innocence and ethereal beauty. Her only sexual partners were handpicked Pappas, who was also training boys. Alana knew that while she would eventually be marketed as nubile “virgin” – her hymen surgically repaired to facilitate the illusion – she would also be expected to perform as a sexual athlete.

  “It doesn’t seem to have done you any harm, darling. I’ve never had a girl who enjoyed sex as much as you do. I’m pretty sure you will never have to learn how to fake an orgasm.” Pappas gently ran a hand over Alana’s pubic mound and leaned over and kissed her left breast. “Am I wrong?”

  Alana laughed and brushed the hand away. Vera was right, of course. The training had been an enjoyable experience. The boys were handsome and endowed, and tried to outdo each other in pleasuring her. Pappas, a mature beauty in her own right, seemed genuinely fond of all of them, and often joined their romps.

  “You are soon to be 15, and will have to earn your living,” Pappas sighed, laying back against the pillows. “But it will not be too bad for you, my little princess. You will entertain only the richest. Maybe a young potentate will take a liking to you and bring you home. You will be set for life.”